Destruction

Destruction

I met him again this morning

By chance in the street where I live.

He’d been a friend of ours.

He had been prominent at work,

The number one,

The wit, the source of all the fun.

We thought ourselves dull

And slow by comparison.

This morning he was shrunk in size,

His hair was lank,

His smile was slow.

There was no answer in his eyes,

And he searched for words that would not flow.

They’d told me he had not been well.

The worm,

Of darkened thoughts

And strange imaginings,

Neurosis, schizophrenia, call it what you will,

Had turned the man that we admired most

Into a slow and shuffling ghost.