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Reflections
How it happened even I could never say, Those who saw him saw nothing near uncanny, Those who knew him knew too well How strange he had become, But not when, nor why, The change occurred, And none could rectify it. Reflecting where our paths first cross, He was not only attuned to life But radiant with it. He had a way which disarmed potential foes And strengthened bonds with old confederates, In short, he had that rare gift, That quality politicians ape in their eternal hypocrisy, Which con artists use with surgical precision In fleecing heedless flocks of fools, He was loved by all instinctively, Although even then I could never say That he returned the sentiment. He stalked calmly through the lives Of those around him, seen by all, Greeted with a smile by all, Ready with a thousand kindly words At his disposal, words he meant, Popular in his way, surrounded, Though nonetheless alone. He preferred it that way, Or at least that's what he told me once. Time would pass and pass him by As he bore the same good-natured Smile to various and sundry, Helping where he could, Giving aid to passers-by Who sought some place or other, Seeking help from no one, Asking in return for a nameless peace Befitting his outward serenity, As years passed by seeming not to notice him, Except for a wrinkle riven, Maybe, here or there, When he smiled. Time's passage which ignored my friend Soon caught me up in webs of obligation, Careers starting, ending, changing, My young wife and our unborn child, Our mortgage, car payments, Insurance, groceries, cat food, Occasionally sleep, In the face of all this I saw Less and less of my friend, A glimpse, here or there, in passing, Always alone as heąd always been, Weąd exchange our pleasantries and move on, Once or twice a month, a year, Like gravity, he seemed, Unchanged, unfazed by time, Except (I thought) he smiled less often, His words rang hollow, or his voice, rather, And whatever light which once had blazed within Had withered into ash. His face told tales his voice would never utter To himself or any other, As open space closed in about him Forming a free-range prison Full of inmates lost in time's keeping. He couldnąt remember how to express What things he once had known, Only that an ache which was not an ache Forever dogged his footstep, Called out to him from shadows between his dreams, As men who with lost limbs feel Phantom pains in nonexistent places, All he knew was something once possessed Was lost. He tried to fill the void which once was pain With drugs, with alcohol, with sex, With anything and everything, And only added to his emptiness, Only dimmed what light within which failed to flee, Only graven sins on stronger chains, Which bore him down as he bore them in turn, Heavier, by degrees, until they almost crushed him, But they wouldnąt let him go so easily. What once had been an open book for all to read Remained an open book for all to read, Full of empty pages, Pages yet unwritten, Pages which now could never be written, Although he had the will He lost the way, Lost all thought of any way, And all memory of thought. He forgot his loss which was not loss To him, since he felt it no more keenly, Than men forever blind bemoan their sight. I saw him once again, And looking in his eyes I saw myself, Until my very countenance repelled me, Scarred with his shopworn smile of misery, Yawning platitudes in agony, Like so many thrown stones Which fail to come to earth. I recoiled at last and turned away from This old friend who only now I'd known to be no other than myself, Having not been merely jaded But burnt to crispy imperfection In fires of whatever hells Iąd known, Fires which had once, Iąm sure, Masqueraded as the very spark of life, As I took one last look upon The unwholesome thing I had become Unchanged from youth except For eyes which did not see as eyes should see, Or mouth adorned with loathsome chalky teeth, I finally smashed the mirror with my head And plummeted from on high to meet my doom.