A Lonely, Lonely Man
By Ethan Holmes
He sets his head upon the pillow,
as he has done many thousands of nights before,
embraced only by the confined dark of the room,
wrapped solely in the silence that comes with every inevitable night.
Sleep brings only what could be or might have been,
restless, no peace, tossing in the black with demons of tormented thought,
Waking and sleeping, sleeping and waking,
Always succumbing to the sheer weariness.
He is a lonely, lonely man.
He quietly sips the morning’s coffee, now tasteless and without comfort,
watching sunrise in no particular awe, listening to birds sing far happier than he.
He plods through work, mindless and without joy or pride,
hoping each week be longer than the last, that he could remain out, away, anywhere but home.
Doleful, even wistful, he gazes in wonder at the couple on the bench,
holding hands, each searching the windows of the other’s soul for love.
In his mind he holds his hands high to heaven and cries out to no one and nothing.
“Why not me? Where could she be?”
He is a lonely, lonely man.
He walks, the walk of a man with no life in the step,
slogging forward, one foot floating by the other, neither an inch from the ground.
He remembers he used to notice things, the water, the squirrels, the annoyed crows.
He recalls a man who moved with purpose, long lost goals, unfulfilled dreams.
The wind tears at his jacket, burns his eyes, tingles his fingers.
He wobbles against the beating, raising his arms as though to take it with him.
The white water races and jumps, cavorts over the red boulders below, begging him.
“Come down from there.” He barely hears her voice over the wind.
He was a lonely, lonely man.
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