On His Passing

His middle years may be likened to a farmer stomping
across a field of virgin snow in muddied gumboots,
Leaving a trail of deep, septic wounds on an
otherwise pure and beautiful landscape,
For so were the people he came into contact with,
And the way he treated them,
So were the trusts be betrayed,
The confidences he shattered,
The hearts he broke,
The souls he corrupted.

It was best for the rest of mankind that his later years
were lived in total isolation,
Locked up in his own attic like a latter day Howard Hughes,
With but a lone servant to clean his
garret room and serve him his meals.

If you had met him, you would understand what I mean;
He had no humanity at all.

But perhaps if he had not been so cruelly treated and
unloved by all and sundry in his early years,
Things might have been so very different.

[The above was first published in Wrong Side Of The River.]

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