He stepped. Into the oncoming stream,
Of the morning train. Turning day,
Into a sea of screaming onlookers,
Who with the sound of gulls at a beach,
Proved his family right. That he would,
Come to no good end. And once,
Blood and bone, and wretched flesh,
Had been scraped and washed,
From floor and rail, the world moved on. Yet for one single, shining moment,
He was recognized, was seen.
Known for his need, for his reality.
Not for his worth, but for his pain,
And it was beautiful, and so he smiled.
Knowing at last that someone felt,
Something for him the man,
Recognized his presence, felt it’s loss,
Without the need for him to be,
Perfect in their eyes before they looked.
Disgust, revulsion at the act,
It did not matter. He could smile,
Knowing the second before impact,
That he free from feeling so alone.
He had been noticed, someone felt.

No mourners came, no flowers sent,
The train that killed him still runs on,
Commuters do not stop to think,
About the man who died that day.
But in the end, that’s not the point.
The earth will always turn again.
The sun will rise, the moon will glow.
What matters, really matters is,
For one brief moment someone felt,
The center of their universe,
And blessed the kiss of steel on bone,
That they were noticed, they had worth.



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