The wind whispered his name. He lingered, but he did not listen. The sun shone it's bright face Warmly upon his disgrace And made his skin to glisten. Bright leaves spun and danced Taking every momentary chance To entertain a sullen passerby Who never did lift his eye. He was not destined to know Because he missed the show.
He didn't hear the music of birds, The crickets all went unheard. The sun might have been dim; Rainbows were unseen by him. He took no joy in a warm breeze Unless it made him sneeze. No human could catch his eye, He was aware of no passersby. There was no color to his sorrow No yesterday or tomorrow, Just the sameness painted gray That he lived in every day.
The artist that is every day life Painted his world with palette knife And every kind of artful brush But could not interrupt the hush Of he who looked but did not see Anything real in his reality; His discourse with the world Had become a sad soliloquy He created his own catastrophe Sculpting his world without mastery.
His sins bore him sorely down Bent over nearly to the ground. A painful stoop to his shoulder He rested on a nearby boulder. Replaying his dreadful history He vowed to keep it a mystery. He would refuse to bear witness Certain there was no forgiveness. He felt he was no better than sod, Was a disappointment to God, And in all there was in creation. He was unworthy of salvation.
Sadly, I have been there and done that. I was lucky enough to pull out of it decades ago. Many are not.