The Story of a Man

His hands held his own
on the large black table in which he sat,
as if he had something to prove.
I considered a moment if it was simply because
there was no one else there to fill the spaces,
but that thought was just passing through.

His eyes stared through panes
of the cursing window as the day grew,
His thoughts bloody from breaking through.
The people looked in with a curious gaze,
Faces concealed with the death of the days
and the nights howled with laughter.

His heart grew colder as the night,
And faces became a sacred blur;
Their thoughts shorter and
voices quieter 'till the dark
Murdered the light and then
Nothing.