BLACK BUTTERFLY

 POETRY, PROSE AND PAINTINGS

  Running on empty

       

 

He's running on empty.

This man of four score years and ten,

doesn't know where

he doesn't know when

the call will come

to summon him home.

 

At night he no long kneels to pray

for the Lord to spare him

one more day

He doesn't care

he sits with the others

who sit in chairs

and blankly he stares

at the flickering window

onto other peoples' worlds.

 

The world he knew

has drifted away

consumed in the smoke

of cigarettes and fires.

And all the ones he loved

are gone

and there's nothing left

but he lingers on

suffering the half life

of the unknowing dead.

 

Nothing intrudes,

nothing involves.

All the care from the bleeding hearts

is for others,

for the dying children

born of dying mothers

and all the lives that are blown away

and no one came to see him today.

 

And no one cares

that he once had a life

two strong sons

a daughter

a wife.

No one cares

that his wife is dead

that there's no loving hand

to soothe his fears

that no one comes to

dry his tears.

 

And it doesn't matter

that he sleeps alone

when he sleeps at all,

that his mottled hands grip

an icy sheet

and he's lost all feeling

in his frozen feet.

And he's running on empty

again.