My Weary Friend Poem by Edmund V. Strolis

The rap at the door brought a friend's visit.
Darkening my doorway with his burdened life.
The weight evident in the sigh and shuffle.
Physically hobbled by his stale old troubles.

I listened to the latest litany of grief.
Central to the theme, his latest love- lost.
He is forever lured in by the sirens of lust.
My moth-like friend burned once again.

I mused in silence at my sad sacked companion.
I am an ear and a beer, not a well of advise.
Jesus himself can not reason with the forlorn.
They must soar, crash and burn all alone.

I knew the mushy apple central to his eye.
She was nice enough if measured from a distance.
How cheaply we sell ourselves to be recognized.
The child-like man with wounds self inflicted.

Is it not enough that the reaper awaits you?
Is it not sufficient that sorrow lurks and lingers?
Is it madness to weep on the threshold of eternity?
Is it necessary to light and curse the same flame?

Yes a friend lends an ear and a bottle of beer.
Nods in sympathetic union at the storytellers woes.
Easing keys from pockets and readying a bed.
You can tell me over coffee, so sleep my weary friend.