Anything but Apathy
His rage gathers storms.
A symphony of chaos,
dog barking, children shouting,
it's all an invasion of the silence
into which he'd been fading,
where dust motes float
through shafts of sunlight.
Again and again the living intrude,
but he is somehow helpless before her.
Losing the tree he'd planted with his
own hands was akin to dying again,
the one bit of life from his life left to him.
(Lightening strikes in the distance).
This woman who should have been his
were he alive turns her back to him
for every petty domestic problem,
every knock at the door, every telephone call.
(Thunder grumbles).
Bittersweet is the sight of her form,
hearing the beauty in her words,
a trace of perfume or the tang of sweat.
If only his senses could reel through touch.
(The wind howls).
Rage fades as he watches her sleep
in his bed, bare arm slung over covers,
her soft breathing rhythmically
dislodging a strand of, to his eyes,
ridiculously short hair from across her face.
(Despite pride, he pretends. He lies down beside her).