by Dolores Moore

Created on: August 19, 2008

They often seem quite ordinary, at first glance,
Maybe a little less open or filled with confidence,
Like you or me. Floating, just out of sight,
Glimpsed, then passing on softly, into the night.

Or perhaps not so silent; but crying aloud
In strange voices, alone in a crowd
That tries not to hear. Moving on to the next place,
They hope for recognition, search for a loving face.

So onwards they stumble, avoided, unheard
By those busy and 'normal,' who don't offer a word
Of simple kindness. In a strange world of their own,
They slip, shamble and glide, not quite human, always alone.

What do they see, as the world passes them by,
That we who are mortal do not have the eyes
To penetrate the veil? The otherness of a black hole
Beckons. We fear the sad, secret life of the lost souls.

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