THE MAN CAN’T HELP IT

He considered it a bitter pill, not to be swallowed or spit out; it was meant for Randall Williams to keep to himself never to be consumed. The man knew their fates were doomed from the start. Life’s puzzle was missing pieces, but it had enough to offer the promise of not allowing it to go South. He knew hope springs eternal, but the fierce competitive nature of this man possessed didn’t allow for promises or hope. From the moment Williams had stepped off of the train, he had heard the cries and seen the tears from the dust encrusted eyes of the children left to wander in this desert. The winds were gusting violently; they knew nothing of filters for protection. All the town folk of Waverly knew was that death was slowly filling their lungs, leaving them nothing but an excuse to die. This was worse than any prison sentence. Dr. Randall William was some angel of mercy! He couldn’t even help them. This was his hell!

His futility
was not a utility
he could offer them!

(C) Walter J. Wojtanik

Life/Death Poem

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