Each poem is about a different element of life

In which someones power and emotions cloud their grip with reality.

In which love gives way to loss

In which stress drags someone down.

In which simplicity is given support.

In my home town there's a man with no name

Over the years, he's grown in fame.

He walks around, talking, down on my street.

Black leather shoes upon his feet.

I saw him one day, on my street, looking down.

Trudging slowly towards the town.

He walked with a purpose, something in mind.

Something to do or to find.

I walked straight outside, bundled up warm,

noticed his bent-over form.

"Do you need help, sir, of any sort?"

He looked at me, gave a snort.

"I'm fine, young man. I'm just going out.

Walking and talking, all about."

He smiled a simple, peaceful smile.

We continued a small while.

"Who do you talk to, out here, alone?"

"The trees, the birds, me. No one."

"But why? Don't you have anyone here?"

"Just me, but my mind is clear."

"Don't you know you are famous for this?"

"Yes, but it gives me great bliss."

"Am I, sir, bothering you at all?"

"No, no. Your presence is small."

Suddenly, he stopped and looked around.

To the sky, and to the ground.

We stayed silent, and right then,

a loud symphony of zen.

The cold winter wind kept beat like drums.

The leaves and birds, how they hummed.

The swaying grass became grand trumpets.

I looked around and felt it.

"See?" The old man said. "It's beautious.

Hear nature's golden chorus."

I looked at him. His eyes both were closed.

With his well-known lean-in pose.

We walked home together, me by his side

And talked on his quiet pride

From what he knew of the sounds unheard

And the grace always unseen.

When I got home, I thought one last thing.

I asked, in the early spring.

"What is your name, if I may ask so?"

He turned to me, and told me.

"You, as with all, do not need to know."

And with that, he turned away.

He died the next day, in early spring.

A friend, the man with no name.

A horizon crossed by waves.

When I was younger, I swam. I was a part of the swim team in my middle and high school. I won a couple of first place ribbons, some second places, even some thirds. But mostly first.

Crystal blue nothingness.

I guess you could say I was the MVP of the team. My trophies said so, but I tried to keep it low-key. On the inside, I knew my arms were tireless, working machines with no off-switch.

Sun above the surface.

My dad came to all my swim meets. He would cheer me on from the stands, watching as I flipped and turned, kicked and stroked towards victory.

Shining seas.

During the relay races, my dad would wait until I was in the water to start cheering. It was weird; everyone except him was standing and watching. Everyone except him cared.

Black seeping in.

I remember the exhilaration above everything else. The bursts of energy I felt as I pushed of the wall, the speed as I cut through the water, every slow-motion breath I took.

Sun disappearing.

Our team made it to the regional meet. There, I won first place in two of my events. I knew I could do better, so I did.

The orange darkness.

Our team made it to the state meet. There, I won second place in two of my events. I knew I could do a little better, but not much. Dad looked at me, a sense of incomplete pride in his eyes.

Clear bubbles floating.

Our team made it to the national meet. There I won third place. He knew I could do a lot better. I knew I did my best. He looked me, the pride fading. He seemed to be thinking.

Sun disappears.

The next week, he started training me for a marathon. On my own. The showers, the chlorine, the lights, the exhilaration, were swapped out for repetition and training.

Shining seas.

For the next few weeks, my time slowly decreased. My patience decreased. The fights increased. He knew I could do a lot better. I knew I always did my best.

A horizon crossed by waves.

The day of the marathon, adults and teenagers alike lined up on the side of the ocean. Waves lapped at the sand, clawing for the competitors. Clawing for me. A gun fired in the distance and we were off. Almost immediately, I felt something was wrong. My breaststroke was moving me backward. The ocean, with hands that crashed in white foam and blue roars, pushed me back and down. My tireless arms were growing tired. 

As I sank, I saw multiple things. A horizon crossed by wave. Crystal blue nothingness. Sun above the surface. Shining seas. Black seeping in. Sun disappearing, the orange darkness. Clear bubbles floating.