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11/11/08 - (1)
A Different Voice
Then one morning, when the earth turned dour, His words (those old friends Who, for thirty, sixty years, girded him, against solitude)
Deserted him, simply failed to show up for work. His first response was one of consternation; He was shocked, thunderstruck. His tears turned to mud,
Mud to blood, blood to melancholy so doleful He didn't know what to do, other than go back home, Throw himself into bed, smother his sorrow, under the covers.
When he finally awoke, he was no one; he was no more. As for his words, they possessed a different voice, Spoke about people and things that made no sense to him.
11/11/08 - (1)
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