nextbignothing

It was a day in October when the cold Intensity overcame my heart.  The crisp And bitter wind Crept over my soul.  And like the leaves, My love of this fair season Quickly decayed under the falling rain Such an earthly smell - the rain. Such a pleasure was the air - so crisp When we held hands to warm ourselves from the cold. And watched the play of color from the falling leaves In that magical forest.  So beautiful by the season, But it was all blown away so quickly in the wind. You came to me with your hair wild in the wind, And sticking to your clothes were the blood red leaves. Your hands were so cold, And you warmed them

If the world were made of dust He'd take it apart brick by brick In a desperate attempt to purify and justify. Block by hallway he'd stoop, In his red hero's cape. He'd pluck it out of the air, One saying at a time. Then lint and dirt - which seem too unnecessary. Unearth lost cities and dwell in Atlantis, Were it fit for a king like him. "God's work," he'd say, And take those crumbling cities down again-- Purging until we became shining and bright. He'd pick the world up one piece at a time and put it in his palm For safe keeping. Skin cells and hair. He'd pick it all up into nothing.

Time had worn down the man's face. It was leathery and full of deep wrinkles. All day he sat in his room, with only a cat to keep him company. His tiny apartment was dark and musty, and reeked of burnt toast and cat litter. On the TV set, reruns of old game shows played all day long. It reminded him of his family and how life used to be. He played the TV loud so that his neighbours would bang on his door and tell him to turn it down. That was the only time anyone ever knocked on his door. Not even the mailman said hello. He sent letters to old friends and distant relatives every day so that they would come back marked "return to sender." That