I feel bad for him who waits
at the bench night and day
braving elements of sun and moon
withstanding forces of men and need

I feel sorry for his room that has
paper with faces in one corner
a circle with a dozen numbers in another
with one Space in between
and a hanging open soul in the middle

I feel pity for the one that
has to stand alone to fight
and pick up other's battles
to his last drop of breath

I feel Sorry for his demise
that whatever left that's meaningful
Is useless but only not to him
for his find was nothing but
ancient, rare, dead, and gone.

I feel Nothing for them
who did not see it in the first
but had a blocked rear view
for they faced only their own road