III
February 26, 2026.
The Man Who Sits Alone
There is a man who sits alone from dawn till weathered dusk.
His eyes they stare in placid peaks, gentle waves amid the throng.
His mug is taught, his shoulders bare, slumped forth beneath his brain. A brain that until this day has sliced and diced his wit to bone, a brain that will not let him be, countless hours spent alone.
Rampant thoughts they wreak deep furrows, etching slowly down his back; painful shots within his scalp they fly, withered hands betray him not.
His fingers flutter back and forth, hands flash in countless waves; tides of voices, pitched in Everglades, curdling whispers in this dark. Who is this torrid beast that comes to wreak insipid pain? Why can he not fly weightlessly as a paper through the air?
..
He stares at silent onlookers, those who could not look away;
They are nothing to this silent beast who hums amid his heart; weightless gnats, insipid few, they know not his valiant fight. Every moment, every breath … He keeps it all at bay; knowing well the monsters lurking here; vile pants and sweaty teeth. His soul is bound in agony, figure rocking still.
HIS SOUL IS bound in agony, his figure rocking still.
He is the crushing, pounding weight; He is this monster’s man, yet with every nerve he fights to curb his will, this violence he has on hand .. FINGERS TICK Out round and round, hands fluttering ever still.
For this man is crushed, so he sits in a bush; silent stares in repeated form. Go ahead Laugh. Mock him gently by, or stay and choose to see him cry, for no pain without can undo the searing loss within.
His brow is set and his seat stays firm;
He is the man who sits alone.
We cannot truly appreciate joy without suffering; we are not complete without anger, grief, doubt, fear … all of these emotions exist within each and everyone of us. It is how we respond to the deep pain within our lives that matters in the end; choose to love, choose to give and all will be given.
As someone who has struggled through sexual trauma, abuse and deep loss; my capacity to respond to life’s hurdles was severely handicapped. While there have been many times I have desired a different path in life; I am grateful for the eyes this experience has provided. We cannot have compassion for what we are unwilling to understand and so I give this painting with words in honour of the many brave women and men that have been crushed by the weight of their own stories.
We are not called to fix. We are not called to change. We are only to love.
Jennifer Peters
