Gladiatorial vulnerability caught in the spotlight.
The glistening tear duct,
Visible from the first row.
Grieving for lost love, lost wisdom, lost best self,
Where folly had once made a home,
Fathoms of loss hang in the air.
Love’s demolition began, perhaps with a quip?
Friendly fire and mutually assured destruction followed.
Bruises linger on the lyric.
Tenderness and fraternal love come in a Newfoundland accent.
Brother Antigone picks up the pieces from the battlefield;
Safety net created.
Each syllable, a teardrop and a salve.
He says: "The words are the best bit".
Physician heal thy self.
Music weaves through his body urging each sinew and bone: to come play.
Refusing to stay stuck in his pocket,
The left hand the last one in, click-click.
His body and soul wind their way home,
In the company of friends and family.
Celebrated by human and divine witnesses.
He has stared at the man in the mirror.
Wounds heal as he sings through the scars,
Now with gratitude for what has been.
Held together with cherubs and seraphims,
Merry men and a beautiful Maid,
Russell is home.