Broken names,
popped red balloons
silver fading
Upon the poor mans spoon.
The glass of white
normally
is soiled
unfresh for thee.
Beds of cement,
empty cordouroy pockets,
not a spending cent.
Every once upon smile
suddenly bent
the aging frown
of an elderly without a home.
Once surrounded by money,
but now so alone.
Had a child once,
a wife too.
Once had a magnifying glass,
once had a clue.
Once had clean clean cheeks
tears only blue,
but now he is hollowed
and his cheeks are soiled too.
Black stains
wrinkles of sorrow.
Lost names,
not desiring tomorrow.
Green haven
of envy.
Comfortable now with living
with a hand of lonely,
holding,
holding his rough cold hands.
Wisdom lost
in a forest of "no one understands."
Oh, how one could live,
how he resides
with solitude eating,
eating every bit of his fragile insides,
and swallowing his soul
as it devours his every ounce of pride.
All he ever did know
was shattered glass,
his broken silver spoon
and his delightful past
has been lost within his popped red balloon.
Copyright 2007 © Loretta Lynn Hanscome
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