Spurned

Still flagrant in the microscopic world: Dust from his boots lies quietly in the streets His sweat and tears having seeped into, Enriched, the very dirt Soil of his soul Into furniture, bedding and handkerchiefs His tools, cars, and books: Fossilized cells from his past existence. He was an orphan; only child; forgotten son Always had to work for his food They couldn't even afford to feed this single nephew In the Depression, unless he could work for his bread He said, at harvest time, they all wanted him; The rest of the time, nobody wanted him. I think that he always secretly wondered, if he was worth loving, Beyond what he could do for someone else. A deep solitude rested inside of him, an unquenchable loneliness, Which he must simply have made peace with, in the end. Moisture from his cremated remains dispersed in every direction A residue of ash to coat the crematorium surfaces, and it was done. There might even have been more of him left over Than there was before; a thin quarkish layer Scattered by movement and time An unexpected fishes and loaves tally, of electrons gone mad But if you look, if you search, there is no sign left. You have to know the passwords, the symbology, The secret reservoirs and collection altars They are there; relics of cast off skin and eyelashes Petrified nail trimmings, beard shavings Fallen to the foundation beneath They clamor for recognition; I feel the invisible tugging whenever I go near- Even a mile distant, I can sense it No charm or icon can shield against that: The spurned molecules left behind Are more alone now than ever.