He sits with a stoic's resistance,
his son in the casket lies there.
No line of a tear mars his visage-
the man with the Thousand yard stare.
He sits in the front row of mourners,
His dear sobbing wife by his side
in silence he keeps his sad vigil
and stares up at Christ crucified.
The mourners pass by him in silence,
touch his hand or say meaningless words,
for his part he stares straight on through them
as if nothings felt, nothings heard.
The Parson commands us to silence
and struggles to lead us in prayer-
but half of the room has forgotten the words
like the man with the thousand yard stare
Death is my race's core competence
dealing with life, we're but fair,
but none living today keeps sorrow at bay
not the man with the thousand yard stare.
Jan 1, 2012
Jan 1, 2012 at 10:52 PM UTC
He sits with a stoic's resistance,
his son in the casket lies there.
No line of a tear mars his visage-
the man with the Thousand yard stare.
He sits in the front row of mourners,
His dear sobbing wife by his side
in silence he keeps his sad vigil
and stares up at Christ crucified.
The mourners pass by him in silence,
touch his hand or say meaningless words,
for his part he stares straight on through them
as if nothings felt, nothings heard.
The Parson commands us to silence
and struggles to lead us in prayer-
but half of the room has forgotten the words
like the man with the thousand yard stare
Death is my race's core competence
dealing with life, we're but fair,
but none living today keeps sorrow at bay
not the man with the thousand yard stare.
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