Vernacular manslaughter
Words tossed around like cheap plastic cups
Crushed under feet, like unwanted insects
Meaningless and endless
They bombard the senses
A continuous stream of things that once were
Happiness has fled, split when he saw the scene no doubt

All that is left is a shell
A vehicle for a simple being
But empty now
Scattered with memories
The wind gently swirls plastic bags and papers

                   Now it is me
                   Alone with my thoughts
                   And the ever-present idea of you
                   Leaving light behind
                   Leaving sound behind
                  
                   Alone with the trees
                                                    The stars
                                                                    My thoughts
                                                                                            Me
                    
                   Nothing to be forgotten
                   No reason for anger
                   Time well spent
                   And life goes on