He sat there, on the broken bench,
half eaten by rust,
half by age,
he sat there.
He sat gaping deep into the empty sky,
looking for something,
which he knows is not there,
but, he sat there.
He sat there, with arms outstretched,
outstretched on the top of bench,
looking like Jesus crucified,
the Christ who got tired,
and sat there,
and, thus, he sat there.
He won't look down,
he can't,
he's afraid,
he's tired.
His gaze goes deep into the sky,
deep beneath the unknown,
it went past Orion,
it glanced at Andromeda,
but, kept on,
and this universe could not stop it,
and it went beyond,
beyond one unknown to another,
that which was always there,
for him to go,
and he knew it,
as it knew him,
while he sat there.
A moment passed an age,
he sat there for ages,
I touched him,
but the gaze did not return.
Christ had left.