I wrote this one night while I was bored at work; it started out as a vignette, but within the first two lines it turned into a poem.

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Prodigal

His sorrows well beneath the surface,
His crying hidden in his dreams,
Well aware of life he’s missing,
Well aware his time is up.

He’s tried so hard
To make ends meet.
He’s tried so hard
To stay secure,
Yet underneath his soul is bleeding,
Underneath, he’s all alone.

He met-up, then, with a friend from school,
Said his friend, “My, how you’ve changed,
“You once I saw so free and happy,
“What went wrong? Where did you go?”

Through thrills and chills
And red-light districts,
No sacred son is he.
He’s seen the world,
And he’s lost to it;
Now he doesn’t have a home.

“Between Earth and Heaven, I go my way:
“The chafe upon the wind; I’m scattered.
“Forget what manner of man I was,
“I’m broken down and without walls.”

Oh, the poor man
Has lost his way.
So tired of going on,
He’s drifting on and endless sea.
Too afraid of change to start his life,
He’s throwing all himself away.

Oh, the glimmer’s gone; the spark of life’s gone dull.
He lives only in a brazen world, a pretender like them all.
Oh, a pretender, like them all.
Not original at all.
Not at all.