A letter to the Fallen.

I write this in the dim glow of an old lamp.

They called him a warrior--
A slayer of the wicked,
the aegis of the innocent,
defender of worldly values.
They thought him a hero.

They thought him happy--
With a smile that could illuminate the dark night sky
The incessant display of kindness
With the ability to perceive beauty in the dilapidated.

They considered him intelligent--
his urbane knowledge impressive,
a lexicon stored in his mind;
A walking library of wisdom.

This man they regarded in awe
As he walked humbly passed
As he carried the burden of Atlas
As he suffered, and they were oblivious.
In this man they could only see perfection,
A sight he could not recognize in himself.

They called him a warrior,
and fight,
he did.

They thought him happy,
because that is what seemed.

They considered him intelligent.

They thought they knew this man,
and for that
they could not figure out why;
why had this great man fallen?

I write this. The tragedy prevalent in so many people. The disease in us all. We are the Fallen.


Man, I still feel like a Whitman =)