Unwhole Existence.




He was self centered,
like a bulls-eye on a target,
in a somewhat
pointless existence.

People all around him
tried to connect but fell short,
their points impacting only
on the fringes of his
personal indulgences.

Occasionally some
sleek, sharp looking lady
took a fling
and pierced his seldom
touched persona.

Together they scored,
in a momentary rush
but then the truth
of how little he grasped
of their togetherness
set gravity in motion
as she fell away.

Most grew bored with him,
finding other far more welcomed
targets to embed their hopes in.

Eventually  he languished
each night in his personal bar,
impaling many plugs of cork
and then removing his pain,
in shots that only satisfied himself,
blurring the loneliness,
in the center of his soul.

He wound up in a nursing home,
his exterior parts
full of needled marks,
wired together to machines,
that sustained his empty heart,
till the circle of his life,
wound down to a bright red spot,
in a fixed position on

his life support monitor.

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