The sleepwalking man is always traversing our street,
Unaware of the constant danger he is in.
He strolls so calmly, one may think that he is perfectly alert, but that is not the case.
His unfortunate somnambulism takes him into the ranges
Of cars;
Of buses;
Of small children
And their fathers.
Someday, those people may discover his identity,
But not for now, as a broken, frost-laden body lies on the street.
Abandoned in solitude and helpless.
Wheezing, calling for help with a raspy voice.
And as the unfortunate somnambulist stumbles onward,
The pseudo-cadaver feels a certain rush of hope
(Misplaced as it is)
That is soon overshadowed by those whispers of loneliness in her head.
And as the somnambulist finds his way back, he mumbles,
"Don't fear; death will soon find you.
"You are not as alone as you think.
"They are coming to help."
"Wh-who are They?"
"The children, of course."
"Children?"
"Ah; here they are."
And They took her away to live
In a place where she would no longer feel sorrow
Where each day
Is quite different from its respective tomorrow.
And that is the power of the somnambulist.
YOU ARE READING
Verbosity
PoetryI think too much. Maybe that's what leads me to write so much and with such a diction. Maybe that's a good thing. Maybe it's a bad thing. Maybe we will never know if it's even of any consequence. Oh, well. I suppose I'll see you inside.
