A Pome a Day for a Year

Punched by the air, pushing breath
into cold light, glints and glows
come from life apart,
this spire a throne,
the king secluded willingly
(though no decrees shall ever
be drawn out)
when wistful longing approaches
the detachment chosen.

He stands, elbows hunched
like court jesters waiting
to spring comedy,
hundred mile staring
at a world split from his
acceptance, it clamours and
bustles happily
never aware
of searching, wandering eyes.

No interference nor subjection,
like that of God,
this tarnished mirror separates,
reflection crisp, smouldering,
the fires of need sizzle
at his edges until
extinguishing.