The Person Who Used to Be
What a shame no one will ever again see
That singular person who used to be:
The one who loved, and laughed, and vied
For while still living, he turned away, and died.
It was he who once could inspire with a word,
But that strong voice will never again be heard;
Even though he has not ceased to speak,
What he says now is no longer unique.
Potential gone to waste, wrapped in self-pity,
He wanders alone through the streets of the city,
Or languishes away in some psychic cell,
Flagellating himself in his personal hell.
What happened, you wonder, to cause this change?
What was the trauma that managed to derange
All that was wonderful in this precious life,
And fill it instead with unending strife?
The memories, those memories of haunting paths,
Gravid with the potential of sudden blood baths;
The cry of the friend who voiced his last sound,
As, calling, he spun and fell - lifeless - to the ground.
There was no refuge; even when in the rear,
He knew that he must go back to the fear,
For rage and death - and sorrow - would await
Until he reached that longed-for date:
The shimmering DEROS, the day he was free,
To return to the person he could no longer be,
To battle strange ailments, disillusion, and sighs,
Until, still living, he turned away and died.
© 9/25/2003 Thurman P. Woodfork