Running On Empty

He's running on empty.
This man of four score years and ten,
doesn't know where
he doesn't know when
the call will come
to summon him home.

At night he no long kneels to pray
for the Lord to spare him
one more day
He doesn't care
he sits with the others
who sit in chairs
and blankly he stares
at the flickering window
onto other peoples' worlds.

The world he knew
has drifted away
consumed in the smoke
of cigarettes and fires.
And all the ones he loved
are gone
and there's nothing left
but he lingers on
suffering the half life
of the unknowing dead.

Nothing intrudes,
nothing involves.
All the care from the bleeding hearts
is for others,
for the dying children
born of dying mothers
and all the lives that are blown away
and no one came to see him today.

And no one cares
that he once had a life
two strong sons
a daughter
a wife.
No one cares
that his wife is dead
that there's no loving hand
to soothe his fears
that no one comes to
dry his tears.

And it doesn't matter
that he sleeps alone
when he sleeps at all,
that his mottled hands grip
an icy sheet
and he's lost all feeling
in his frozen feet.
And he's running on empty
again.