A Man Not Himself

Grooves were dug into his palms
As he rested them heavily,
Painfully, on the fountain's cold, hard edge.
He stared intently into the dark
Water's surface,
Into his own eyes.

He searched the liquid mirror
To find what was blatantly,
Yet not,
Staring directly back at him,
Unfeeling and unaware
Of the meticulous mind
That filled its counterpart.

The water was calm,
Yet unbelievably
Menacing and threatening,
Sinister and cunning.

Its discrete dark hue matched the
Sickening air that surrounded the scene.

For he was hunched over
In a pose
That warded off others,
A pose that everyone knows,
That everyone hates,
That no one wants to assume.

And inside he was distraught,
For something beautiful had been undone,
Like a freely fluttering, intricate butterfly,
A natural creation beyond
The capability of mankind,
Struck from the sky,
Limited to a sorrowful struggle on the ground.

No one could help,
Nothing could change it,
Inevitably, incomprehensibly,

Destroyed.

After looking long into the abyss
Of his emotionless reflection
He tore his palms from the sharp edge
Of the fountain.
Slowly, he departed, indifferent to what
Happened next...what did it matter?

And yet, there remained, his
Imprinted reflection in that
Black body of water, the unlikely prison.
And forever would it remain,
Knocking, never stopping, against
The flimsy barrier that kept it locked away,
Begging hopelessly for someone to
Release it.

He returned home that night,
No different from any other night,
Yet different altogether.
He left something more important,
Something he could never again obtain.
He lost that which defined him as someone
Other than just another,
Unrecognizable body amongst a
Compilation of countless complacent components.

He went home a man not himself.