The Stranger

March 15, 2008
By Frank O'Brien, Plymouth, MA

As he passes by,
Through the shrilly echoing,
Seeds of time;
That leave their burning mark
On the delusions of freedom;
The scourge of the arrogant,
Reminding him of the choice
Leading up to this moment
Of regrets embedded
In his deathly silence.

Disconnected from his life,
Before the crossroads split him
Each day eroding his memories,
Reducing his consciousness
Until nothing is left
Save a single, prolonged gasp
A muffled cry for help,
He cannot accept.

Oblivious to his own past,
Writhing to cling on
To the last remaining source
Of stability to stall his fall;
Only killing himself faster,
Consumed by his expanding flesh;
The grim desire carrying him,
Barely aware of what he’s done
Robbing him of the control
He thought he could have,
But never sought.

Left merely to watch
The simple essence he longs for,
Reviving others of their failures;
Denying himself the chance,
As his faded dreams
Pass him by.

Yet he feels nothing
But an empty void
Isolating him
Staring him down
Waiting for him to break.

Through it all,
He still breathes
But only against his will

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