at the last

the burning sun rose
lit the still sleeping house
he moved around, soft
hushed as a ghost, preparing
he was so many humble shades of earth

the children woke
shook the floor with running feet
he made coffee and wheat-toast,
arid, like his soul
he was so many different shades of brown

a mad man
without dreams to perserve sanity
crumbled and so very strange
betrayed by the cruelty of war, wandering
he was so many different shades of grey

he knew the tricks
the smiles
the games, the voice of night,
he thought he might have known
he was so many different shades of strong

"I yam what I yam", he'd said

no warm place
for him to disappear
exposed to the burning truth
leathery against his skin
he was so many different shades of thought

broken, tired,
twisted like a forgotten vine, hand
knotted to a fist, fingers curled like stone
to land that heavy blow
he was so many different shades of pain

such angry eyes
wild eyes
animal eyes
roll in and out of time, beg forgiveness
he was so many different shades of crazy

He read the Bible, frustrated,
the words fled his touch
like laughing babies, and
dank thoughts of death
He was so many humble shades of ghostly