Tag: time

To the Man I Might’ve Been

You never made it out of the early days.
I see your face sometimes in the mirror—same jaw,
but your eyes aren’t tired yet.

You had plans.
Straight lines and clean hands.
You really thought grit alone would get you through.
I admire that.
Even now.

There were forks you didn’t see,
roads I walked instead.
Some of them cost more than they were worth.
Others saved me
by breaking me first.

I held your name like a knife for a while.
Cut a few people.
Cut myself more.

There was a woman you would’ve loved
and left.
I stayed.
She left anyway.
That one still stings.

There’s a boy now
who calls me Dad.
He wouldn’t know you,
but I think you’d like him.
He’s gentler than we ever were
and stronger for it.

You’d hate how slow I’ve gotten.
How quiet.
How long I sit before answering.

But I’m still here.
Wiser, maybe.
Definitely more scarred.

Sometimes I wonder what you’d think of me.
Not sure you’d be proud,
but I think you’d understand.

You burned bright.
I burn low,
but steady.
You chased light.
I learned to live in shadow.

15

Choke Town

The butcher’s sign still swings,
though the shop’s been gutted
since Gaz ran a hose from the tailpipe
and left the lights on.

The school gate’s rusted open.
Wind sifts chalk dust
through cracked windows
where names once lined the roll
like prayers in hell.

Down at the silo,
kids mainline in the shadow
of grain that never came.
One girl carved a star
into her thigh—
the first scar
she chose.

The creek runs red when it rains.
No fish, no frogs,
no reason left to lie.

Dogs roam in threes.
Cattle follow fence lines
out of habit, not hope.
Even the sky
hangs lower than it used to,
like it’s tired
of watching us fail.

Mothers drink in sheds.
Fathers forget birthdays.
The baker feeds birds
because they still show up.

And under the rot
of pubs, paddocks
and cracked hope,

the town exhales.
Shallow and slow.
Waiting for someone
to mumble last rites.

Ryan Stone

10

Whalesong

for the ones who sing into silence

Somewhere below the shimmer line
where light forgets itself,
a whale turns slow in a cathedral of salt—
each scar on her skin
a stanza.

She sings,
not to summon,
not to find—
but to remember.

A song older than shipwrecks.
Older than ropes and sails.

The deep drinks it.
Holds it like breath.
Lets it echo
along trenches where no eyes go,
only ghosts
and pressure
and time without hands.

We used to think it was a beacon,
a call to others.
But not all songs seek ears.
Some are memory
made into sound—
just one creature
telling the dark:
I was here.

Ryan Stone

8

First Smoke

I lit it behind the shed
with a match I struck on the tin—
my thumb raw from trying.

The cigarette trembled
between fingers that still knew
Lego and scraped knees.

I didn’t cough.
Didn’t blink.
Just held the burn in
like I was keeping a secret
only smoke could understand.

The dog watched,
head tilted,
like he knew I’d crossed
into something I couldn’t uncross.

By the time Mum called for tea,
my breath was fire and hush,
and I’d decided
not to be a boy anymore.

Ryan Stone

6

Red Wagon

I pulled my dog through summers,
tongue lolling in the heat,
ears twitching at bees
and things only he could hear.

The wagon rattled like laughter
over cracked footpaths,
and I—captain of that small red ship—
knew no world beyond
the corner store
and the shade beneath our tree.

It was enough.

Now I carry more—
keys, deadlines, debt,
the ache of wanting
what I used to have
before I learned to want.

My wagon rusts in a shed somewhere,
still red beneath the dust,
still waiting
for a child who doesn’t need more.

Ryan Stone

10

Blog at WordPress.com.

Up ↑