Little Man

Soft soles scrape hardwood floor,
and in his eyes I bask once more--
the taint of a man nonexistent,
the absence of burden apparent,
just that baffled hazel stare remains.

If I could trace his face once more,
as he slept sound and contented,
yet now these digits seem only able,
to pin cigarettes and beer bottles.
The memory brief and painfully so.

So they say music soothes the soul,
but what if the sound of his laughter
was the music my soul desired most?
Am I to believe through losing this,
that Murphy's Law should reign supreme?

Defeatist can only explain so much,
once the flame that braves the wind
flickers and fails at the smallest gust.
Trite reality tried in the waning dawn,
and found unkempt by the can-do man.

Daylight soon melts with dark of night,
and in the presence of none but myself
I see the lies for what they have become.
With nothing left to lose I lose my mind,
and die at last to sonnets of the wild dove.