I sigh
	Over the dead worlds,
	Which lie
	Strewn at my feet
	Like the broken toys
	Of a child;
	I sigh and wonder
	Useless what-ifs,
	While autumnal memories
	Scurry
	Through empty passages
	In a brain
	Made tired from
	Too much idle thought.
	What have I bought
	With my twenty silver pieces?
	Even dust
	Has more value
	Than the emptiness
	Echoing through
	My hollow soul.
	Who values loneliness?
	Who but one insane
	Would pawn
	A loved-one
	For such nothingness?
	But, alas,
	I am all too sane,
	Too well knowing
	The hell and heaven
	I confused.
	My reward was just;
	Harsh, but fair.
	Yet, when
	I am bowed with age,
	I shall still
	Recall the page
	I ripped
	From my Book of Life,
	In hopes
	Of rewriting
	Its plot and theme.
	But the plot
	Took a twist unforeseen,
	Leaving
	Just an empty dream.

6/3/77

© Fred O'Bryant. All rights reserved.

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