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He sat in the park and talked to himself,
While feeding the squirrels and the birds,
I tried to get closer to hear what he said,
But couldn't hear all of the words.
For all I could hear
was a whimper and whine,
Like one in distress and in pain,
He seemed like a man who was hurting inside,
But others thought he was insane.
"He's
just an old man who's had too much to drink,
Or maybe he's losing his mind",
They scoffed and they ridiculed all they could see,
But never once tried to be kind.
The man started walking
back home where he lived,
I followed a little behind,
And once again heard a small whimper and whine,
And wondered just what I would find.
As day turned to
twilight and twilight to night,
I thought I could see a small fire,
And there in the distance I saw a crude shack,
And that is where he would retire.
I looked in the window
and then I drew back,
For what I saw caused me to cringe,
A shadow was floating and waving around,
And hanging upon the door hinge.
A stiffened-up body, so
cold and so dead,
But dressed in the finest attire,
The strangest of visions, but all I could think,
"What caused this poor soul to
expire?",
The man with the
whimper was watching him too,
A tiny small tear in his eye,
His look and expression once more made me ask,
"So why did this man have to die?"
And then as in answer
to what I had thought,
The man with the whine pulled a gun,
I knew in an instant just what had occurred,
The old man had killed his own son.
There's no
explanation for what he had done,
And none would be given to me,
While feeding the birds he will whimper and whine,
And guilt will not let him be free.
by David Ronald Bruce Pekrul
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