I wrote this, or something very similar when a dear friend of mine died nearly thirty years ago.
Just found it in the back of a book.
He’s on the breeze
and in the trees,
just waits the chance
to show his dance.
I know I cried
and how you tried,
to keep me from this apathy.
But now they say insanity
has taken me away.
But they are wrong and I will stay
because he’s here
not far, but near.
He didn’t die,
I need not cry.
He’s in the wings
and when he sings
my heart will soar
tho’ I will be no more.
I find them everywhere, stations, parks and sometimes just sitting on street corners. They are the lost souls, the ones that have stumbled from the real world into a void that is mostly of their own making.
After I buy them coffee and a sandwich I ask them if they need a room for the night, somewhere to wash up and indulge in a few comforts.
Because you know that home is where the heart is right? And their hearts look mighty fine on the shelf in my home.
They buried the babies first. As each small body was lowered into the ground, they wept.
The mission to evacuate women and children had failed. Their unit had arrived too late, and the slaying was over.
Not a living soul remained. Every woman and every child had been a victim of this atrocity. The men were long gone.
As they gripped the ruby encrusted handles of the blades, signs of such opulence, and pulled them from the bodies of the slaughtered innocents, each of them silently wondered to himself what kind of men could murder their own wives and children.