One Poem by Phillip Erb

From the throne
In the corner
Sits a man
Afraid that
He will never
Love anyone

Like a machine
He counts the drops
As they slip off
From the lip of
The corner sink
Along with each
Breath he breathes

All the time
Wondering
If he trusts
The promise
Her words made
From a smile
That could mean
Near anything

There is a clock
He is aware
Ticks constantly
Throughout the night
Whether or not
He stops to check
How much remains
Before the sun
Begins to knock

Before dawn
As the birds
Leave their nests,
Find the worms,
Write a new
Melody
About life
And the hope
The light lifts
With a yawn

Comes the oath
Renewed anew
Upon the birth
Every morning
Fall to the Earth
From the Father
To his children
Made of the dirt
From cosmic dust
That every dream
Is worth some hope

The rain falls
Out of clouds
Onto ground
One by one
All at once
Gathering
Patiently
Into streams
Cascading
Down the hill
Flowing slow
To the wall

The night is cold
Enough to freeze
Stares on faces
The neighbors wear
Behind the smoke
Of cigarettes
Uncomfortably
Turning away
Before his eyes
Reach and share
Someone alone

A strange thought
In light of
All modern
Medicine
Knows about
How sickness
Spreads between
The noses of
Humanity
Shares the cough

It makes him wish
He never hurt
The only one
To ever mean
Anything more
Than just a dance,
Just a kiss left
Passionately;
Making him sick

He believes
There's nothing
Left that's real
In his life
On the Earth,
Left behind
After the light
Takes his dreams

Into the room
Where the shadows
Swallow all that's
Left of the sweet
Memory he
Holds by his side
Along with doom

So he prays
No one takes
Notice of
Him watching
Faith slowly
Drift away