I met a man on twilight road,
uncommon in every way,
from facial discontent,
to life’s disillusionment.
We spent a day at a last
destination, he told me of
his life of unfulfilled passion,
I told him of my trivial worth.
We talked of a world no longer
recognizable, the reconstruction
of sanity, where the, so called,
end of days inspires hysteria.
How the killing fields were, once
again, cultivating body count,
he asked me questions, I couldn’t
answer, he cried, and I did too.
How once he had it all and lost
it far to soon, not to drugs or
gambling, how tidy that would be,
but as a guard at Guantanamo.
How his guilt slowly bled dry
his passion for life, and with it,
his wife and beautiful child, his
decent into anarchy, quite swift.
He told me of the soup kitchens
of east L.A., the frozen nights
under Denver overpass, and the
desert winds of Phoenix diversity.
I told him of my upward mobility,
when my status was measured in
revenue, how the trophies became
idle burdens to-heavy-to-bear.
I told him how some grew fat on
other’s misery, the malcontent, the
swept under the rug, how I turned
away because my guilt to painful.
Our paths collided releasing the
anger and despair gathered over
lifetimes, the left behind emptiness
filled in with hope and understanding.