Ballade of a man.

'For what is a man, what has he got -' Paul Anka


What is a man, his freedom
stands rusting outside his front door
and guilt is pulsating in his pants.

His dream- an exciting comic
under the blanket of a child.
His fear- the wind through thinning hair.

His dead- a blue waterfall
of grey stare. His end- lost
like a drop in a cataract.

Regret hangs in the folds
around his belly button, a drafty wall socket
disconnected with a cold snip-

Ever since he is a satellite drifting,
cursed and forever cursing,
searching for the mothership.