on letting go.

he sits quietly still

in seclusion,

he, with his wrinkled face

and pallid skin,

his withered hair

and calloused hands,

and his wry, almost

mournful smile.

he is labored as he

stretches his lips for a grin,

and his spirit

is almost penetrable --

his seething pain as palpable

as the superficiality

of his wry, willed smiles.

his gloom is plastered all over

the numerous zigzag contusions

in the kitchen walls,

and the roaches and rats

that scavenge through

the living room,

and the darkening

and ashen sunflower tiles

in the bathroom floor,

and the kitchen sink

which silently dies away

with the birth

of molds and fungus

in its surface.

he continues to smile,

but he is bereft

of his once

adolescent vigor,

reduced to a sorry

and solitary fellow,

his drive to live

propelled

by nature's prodding,

and not his own;

he lives and yet,

he ceases to exist.

but each night

when the clock

would strike six,

he would light

a candle,

make a fist

and hold it

close to his heart,

look at her picture

in a white gown,

neatly arranged hair,

and the most pristine smile,

as beads of clear water

would drop from his eyes,

as he is again reminded

of his fate,

and as he resigns

to the inevitable --

that he is alone

and inconsolable.