Anything but Apathy

His rage gathers storms.

A symphony of chaos,

dog barking, children shouting,

it's all an invasion of the silence

into which he'd been fading,

where dust motes float

through shafts of sunlight.

Again and again the living intrude,

but he is somehow helpless before her.

Losing the tree he'd planted with his

own hands was akin to dying again,

the one bit of life from his life left to him.

(Lightening strikes in the distance).

This woman who should have been his

were he alive turns her back to him

for every petty domestic problem,

every knock at the door, every telephone call.

(Thunder grumbles).

Bittersweet is the sight of her form,

hearing the beauty in her words,

a trace of perfume or the tang of sweat.

If only his senses could reel through touch.

(The wind howls).

Rage fades as he watches her sleep

in his bed, bare arm slung over covers,

her soft breathing rhythmically

dislodging a strand of, to his eyes,

ridiculously short hair from across her face.

(Despite pride, he pretends. He lies down beside her).