| The Letter The word destroyed and nothing left, no echos in the street. All was quiet, no sounds were heard, no one left to greet. The still like death, and birds on silent wings. An erie void of muted music, he never heard them sing. Hazy light in clouded eyes, unfocused an unseeing. How could this have happened, to a living human being. The body lay in chilling form, not a muscle moved within. Kind, loving and passionate, now just an empty man. His wallet held their pictures, the two of them together. Now pressed in his pocket, on the porch out in the weather. Eyes empty and reddened, tears stained his face. Now the tears windswept dry, he'd left the human race. All day long as he worked, his thoughts had held her image. He checked the clock periodicly, the time slowly deminished. The second hand crept slowly, his hand on his jacket. He closed the drawer and locked away, her letters in the packet. He pulled into the driveway and lept from the car. While others he had worked with, just arriving at their bars Visions of her waiting, as every day she'd been before. But the doorway was empty, only a note tacked on the door. This is how the neighbors found him, hollow, a shell of a man. Lying on the porch in tears, the crumpled letter in his hand. The masked Writer <,.-> (C) 2001 T Lovett |