Son of Lazarus
He has nothing left to give.
He was fifty years old and brunt out.
The last ember of a once beautiful firework.
Soft music couldn't do it.
Pills couldn't do it.
His son couldn't do it.
His wife couldn't do it.
Sex couldn't do it.
A beautiful sunset couldn't do it.
A quiet room rarely did it.
Inspiration rarely did it too.
Laughter?
That made him smile.
Even though he had lost the knack to be funny.
The misery he felt each day overwhelmed his senses
With hopelessness.
The crowd still roared.
The sea of hands still showed.
But he was lonely.
A figure more pitiful than his reflection could ever reveal.
There was nowhere for him to go.
He had run out of options.
Life had won and death was the prize.
How he longed for it to be all over.
For reality to turn him into a dream.
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