At the end of each day he retreats
to the back of his long, dark cave.
No doorbell, he doesn’t hear the phone ring,
no windows, no longing looking out.
Nobody feels sorry anymore,
their sympathy to derision to forgetting-
he’s just what he chooses to be-
served right in his loneliness.
But every night he saves the world,
paints the walls in hues of shimmering gold:
a grin which proves we’re all okay,
that we didn’t mess up by being born,
a righteous trophy of sanity unseen
by men in dying days.