A.N. - This poem is over eight years old; I hope it doesn't show.


I'm not dead,
but my respect from those
who I thought cared
is on life support.

First the phone stopped
ringing, then the mail
grew sparse. Now
my doorbell's silent, too.

I've only memories of how
they act when hurt or angry
or need a favor
(usually money).

We've grown disconnected,
disdainful, disconcerted.
I might be all but a shadow,
but at least I still care.

Their phones still ring.
Their mail still holds cheer.
Their doors see visitors.
They have moved on.

I hold my beliefs,
but they no longer hold me.