(A poem I wrote, June 10, 2005)
He drowns in a pitch black park of familiar faces just to escape his own
Cannot feel except the damp tears drying on his sunken cheeks
He tightens his grip on the liquid eraser that promises at least six hours of blurry vision, but not enough hours in the night to help him forget the finality of someone who was gone long before his death.
"He didn't hit me or anything. He just didn't care."
Then you wished he hit you instead, as if violence were a warped way of showing he cared and loved you.
He thinks death follows him. Who could be next?
The grim reaper creeps behind him, hiding his face behind a morbid glare.
Reluctant and heavy with sorrow, he keeps from his world those who could be close.
If not for the fear of the black hooded creature taking away the only ones that matter
He might be able to take off his own armor....
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