I watched the saddest man in the world while he watched me. Intent and terrible, ailing and willful, he finally cried for more than himself. With all his weightier plans resigned, his fruitless gambles had broken him. Fallen like an empty wish, his secret hopes had silently become an immovable regret, painting hindsight with all he'd left unsaid.
When his children needed food or shelter he complained about politics, incessantly studying inequality while practicing neglect. An idealist with no follow through is a fallen hero of sorts, a babbling madman whose followers, in the end, doubt only themselves. In time, he may bury this legacy with more lies and new children. Yet, those that bear his name feel the foreword of their fabric bears an envious tone. Small and pitching, slow and sullen they hate the world as cynics do.
No comments:
Post a Comment