Requiem
He looks as if he were only sleeping…
The peace upon his face
Belies the violence that ripped asunder
The Spirit and The Flesh
In one blast of scorched air and smoke.
The irony of it all
Is that he never was a decadent wastrel—
No eccentric rich man—
He might have had a hundred dollars,
Never more than that on him at one time.
A simple soul just searching—
Praying, crying sometimes, and desperately hoping
For someone that would return his love—
That could see the man behind masks he wore
To shield himself from people’s misunderstanding cruelty.
They tell me a phone call came last evening,
That got him all emotional and exited;
And he was dressed up best as he could be—
Waiting with anticipation
As the clock ticked down the final minutes.
I wonder how his face lit up,
How he rushed about with final preparations
When he finally heard the knocking:
But I have to sign the guest book at the viewing
Just because poor old Archie answered his door…
Pendragon
© 3/16/07
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Originally Posted by Adolescent09
How I must wonder
