For his sickly mind,
There is no cure
Anywhere in the near future,
Because even the suggested life sentence,
Is just a paper left unsigned.
But are we to suffer?
A head case,
With answers to everything,
Isn't really concerned,
With all things lesser.
His notions take precedence,
Over sense and logic,
A million terrible fantasies,
That never come true,
Show the absence of any guidance.
To us, they're obvious lies,
To him, the unavoidable truth
But in his mind, he's a mistreated messenger,
Prepared to shout out his self-induced goodbyes.
HIS rights have been violated?
What about ours?
Clothes, words, spark plugs, and potatoes,
Those are the weapons of his choice.
It wouldn't make sense even if his reasons WERE valid.
A lifetime of travail,
Does it amount to this?
Yes, we're soon to be freed of his shadow,
But freed of our hearts? No,
Over those, we will never prevail.
A true poem about someone close to me...