I see a man,

Amidst the scurried atmosphere,

Move slowly, intently, each step calculated..

As if traversing through a flowing stream,

Or a shrouding fog -

This man moves through air like a leaf through a stream,

Carrying its perpetual flow…

He dresses in shades of grey,

Not sombre, monotonous greys,

But ashen - brushed greys that deliver an air of sophistication,

Of quiet humility.

Upon his head

Rests a flat cap - To match the gentle, almost withdrawn

Tone of his blazer.

Black, fingerless gloves

Reveal leathery skin and

Worn fingertips.

A sterling silver ring resides on the bridge of his finger to the right of his middle.

In his hands,

Upon his lap,

A tattered book,

Whose pages whisper secrets of old.

An ancient, timeless kind of wisdom

Long forgotten.

I wish to read the book,

I want to know of the stories it speaks,

With its straight lines and squiggles etched upon

Its yellow, rugged pages -

Nicotine, coffee-stained pages.

I imagine they were once ivory..

I will never forget the day

I first noticed,

The jagged white lines,

Etched unto the surfaces of your skin.

I was young,

Still in primary school, perhaps…

And in my youthful innocence I asked,

What were they? How did you get them?

And you spun me a story of how you were working in a building,

Whilst leaning upon a glass frame, your arms fell through and with it so did you,

And the shards tore the tissue in your arms

And left you with those permanent scars..

I noticed the glimmer in your eye as you spoke -

The forming of a tear,

Reflecting the bronze glow of the sun as it peered through your windowsill,

Casting rays of gold upon the blank walls and faces..

I will never forget

The way those scars looked through the eyes of a younger self -

The way they danced, like the scales of a koi fish,

Twirling amidst a sea of light,

Silver, shimmering rays,

Like slug trails -

Reminiscent of "kintsugi",

The Japanese art of repairing that which is broken,

With a golden glue,

As to admire the fragile nature

Of things, so beautiful.

Yours were sown silver,

Delicate white threads that spoke of a time you were hurting,

And in pain,

But survived.

They are signs of your victory,

Trails of the trials put through.

I could see that,

I can feel that.

Those silver hues,

You survived.

They say every cloud has a silver lining, and

Yours were sewn into skin.

Trembling fingertips clasp at its plastic sheath, eager to evoke flame. She is completely immersed in rolling her thumb over the jagged, metallic ring embedded at its core.

A flurry of insignificant sparks spew into the darkness, as fragments of light begin to form.

"1... 2..."

She mutters under her breath, struggling to summon the necessary strength for this task.

"3..."

A whirring 'zipping' sounds, followed by fire.

Victory.