Dark eyes and vague pronouncements,
a catalogue of mistrust
in his eyes like the cloudy sense
that time moves but life stalls,
that his whole moment
in the long history of existence is
no longer than the lifespan
of some unnamed insect,
he could never remember which, hated
biology and the sciences, though
they kept returning, coming back
into his life, mind, invading
his conscience with pitchforks and shovels and clubs,
angry villagers making their revolt
against the dictatorship
of his expectations, rousing his
mistrust and alienation, rebels roused
from their apathy with a jolt,
and his stare so empty of
any sense that he has anything
worthwhile to keep living for,
but having no stomach for action,
a desire, yes, a readiness to
end it all, but no ability
to really snuff it out, no mind
for guns or blades or pills or gas,
but still waiting, hating,
waiting for something, anything,
to bring the curtain down.