absorbed in his reading.
The rings around his deep set eyes,
were smudged,
like a faded bruise.
Bent and dog-eared,
his skin reddened and dry,
from the alcohol
and the elements.
He was a frozen grimace,
of self loathing.
As real as he could imagine,
the weight of his resentment,
hung heavily,
on his broken shoulders.
His heart was home to a silent self pity,
an intolerable truth
an unbearable burden,
an irrevocable stain,
from his past.
Pushed so far down
and covered by so much shame,
like the layers of clothes
that he wore in the Winter.
He'd almost forgotten why,
but not really.
He'd given up, packed it in,
just couldn't take it anymore,
and in turn they'd given up on him.
They'd really tried,
with what little they had left themselves,
but his grief seemed impenetrable.
His loss too huge,
his recovery too unbelievable, unachievable.
They mirrored each others hurts
and disbeliefs.
Why me, why, too big a why,
an unanswerable why.
In the end he gave up pretending
and just disappeared.
He walked away,
he gave in to his demons
and his self-loathing.
He wanted to hurt himself,
as much as he could.
He wanted to fall as far as he could.
He wanted to punish himself for living,
but death wasn't an option,
too quick and too easy
and he was too gutless.
He wanted to feel their pity,
their judgment,
their shrunken hearts,
his shrunken heart.
His tar-black heart,
wicked as a crows,
had turned his mind sour,
crazy, loony and homeless.
Sinking and drowning,
in this quicksand,
of his own making,
his own doing.
He'd given up on the world
and the world in turn,
it had given up on him.
Without either knowing,
or realizing,
or caring,
it had just happened.
The drinking had helped in the start,
to forget, to withdraw,
to stop questioning the unquestionable.
The unfathomable truth,
just too simple to grasp.
Time heals everything
but he just couldn't wait.
He wanted
it all to go away,
for his old life back.
He wanted everything to be the same,
exactly the same.
He wanted it all to go away
and with it, his shame.
Desperate for love
but unlovable.
Resigned to his lot
but accepting of nothing.
Lost to it all,
having lost everything,
even his own dignity had deserted him.
He'd lost faith in everything
and everyone,
he was broken,
damaged goods,
spoilt.
The guilt snuck up on him ,
again and again,
paralysing him.
The dread seeped into him,
thick as oil.
Like a favorite jacket,
pulled out every Autumn,
it was comfortable and familiar.
Like keeping wrong company,
it was easy and convenient,
but it was a bad fit all the same.
His choices were eating him up.
They were consuming him day by day.
His health suffered,
and he suffered...silently.
Eaten by the worms,
of misery
and wretchedness.
He'd forgotten how to laugh,
and he knew not how to cry,
too proud and too stubborn.
Besides there was no one to watch,
to listen... to care.
He'd scared them all off.
He was alone.
The hurt of losing your own children,
can seem unsurpassable, insurmountable,
words are lost to it.
He was lost to it and knew it.
He'd given in to it,
but he was still alive,
but not really.
He'd forgotten why he even bothered,
but the routine had gotten a hold of him.
He'd pushed away the sadness,
with anger.
I think deep down he knew,
he'd have to go back,
but for now he just drifted.
From one day to the next,
from one town to the next
and from one shitty shelter,
to the next.
Asleep in his coma of self-hatred,
he was invisible to the world.
He was a symbol of lost hope,
a token of despair,
in a world of forgotten prayers.
