There is a figure in black
Behind a door.
He talked with whoever
Came by.

He told tales
Of a time
When he was great.
A time
When he saw he sun.

His voice fills with anguish
When he gets to the part
Where space and time lurched
out of his reach,
And he fell into the gap in between.
Slowly he deteriorated,
And his sobs are heard through the door
By the listener.

He tells them,
'I am fading away.'

'No longer do my eyes glow with the same light as they used to,
They are dimming.
And no longer do I embrace my children,
Or cry in my wife's arms.
They are miles away from me.'

He is alone with his tears
And his suffering,
As everyday
He flakes away a little more.
The ash pile beneath him gets bigger all the time,
And all he can do
Is tell the voices through the door.

It's always the same.
He weeps against the wood panels,
Pleading for them to help him.
Get him out.
Open the door.
Turn the handle for goodness sake.

And then he hears their footsteps recede hastily.
Twigs and leaves snapping under their feet as they bolt into the darkness away from him.

He knows what will happen,
Every single person will react the same.
But he can't bear to let go
Of the hope that one will be different.

And yet he knows they never will be.