More rattlings from The Tin Sack - A life less complete

A life less complete

Solitary souls
weaving their single lives
like cats cradles
on the fingers of a child.
Dipping and dancing
with simple minds
into worlds they share
with nobody.
Lines on a platform;
faces on a train
numbing the incessant pain
with medicine made
from the same
homogenised,
pasteurised grain.
Paths crossing,
but never collide,
heads turning,
mentally deride
the castaways
stood outside
the narrow social parameters
of our blind alley times.
So many sad faces,
bearing the lines
of stresses and strains,
worried about nothing
in the grand scheme of things.
And the fragile
bubble burst
of our petty,
pointless lives;
becoming a mist of a memory
when the eyes have dried.
The friends that miss us
will rot as compost and peat
leaving nothing but
a name on a family tree.
A photograph;
some words,
a story misheard,
wisps of a memory
for a life less complete.