Only One
Heavy night.
But he goes.
Speaks
Old warmth on his skin.
Water.
Forgetting.
Bone-pain memory.
A last thin light.
He is only one.
One single.
A flicker.
He walks out.
Sees.
Says.
Small on the stage,
smaller still beneath the lights —
yet vast,
magnified into myth,
multiplied across screens.
A trembling god
with a tired heartbeat.
He sits
where he once stood.
The piano holds him upright.
Words come like fossil flame.
A thousand nights behind him.
Ten thousand faces before him.
"It's not dark yet,"
he murmurs,
"but it's getting there."
He stands.
Nods.
Balances against the air.
Back door.
Quiet.
A cognac.
A plate of something warm.
No one asks.
No one intrudes.
No one pretends eternity.
Just a small old man
with the scent of departing time,
carried through corridors
toward sleep.
Later, he dreams
as only the almost-gone dream —
weightless,
wingless,
wordless.
Only one.
Only still.
A spark in the long night.
A voice dissolving into silence.
And yet —
still saying.
Still saying.
Poetry by Ingvar Loco Nordin
Read 26 times
Written on 2025-11-23 at 18:09
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