I was once somebody’s son, but now
no more. That rope lays dangling,
severed, frayed ends disappearing.
I had a brother, past tense; but he
left. Buried, put aside, a fading
thought. There are no more.
Each day, another tiny death, another
name omitted from one list, then added
to another. Scales must balance.
Each day repeats itself.
Each night forgets the last.
The road I travel’s aged, foot-worn,
nothing left but dirt and stones,
and roots of trees long gone.
Clouds all look the same, and rain
is simply wet upon my face
as I turn it upward.
And I’m dissolving as we speak, the acid
etching where the smudge is scratched
or not applied enough to matter
About the contributor: All things are connected. That’s the premise of what William J. Joel does. Each of Mr. Joel’s interests informs each other. Mr. Joel has been teaching computer science since 1983 and has been a writer even longer. His works have appeared in Aliens, Common Ground Review, DASH Literary Journal, and The Blend.