The World

by Eric Y. Theriault

The world turns
in a pattern we so accustomed
that we think not of it,
and such is our lives,
wandering the same path,
day after day,
forgetting what surrounds us,
and not noticing slight differences.
And should I never
speak to thee again,
Am I so slight
you'd hardly notice?
Or am I so insignificant,
you'd just walk on by?
Or perhaps would it be,
as if I blew out
a candle deep inside your heart?
Should you think of
never stating a word to me,
I could not
begin to define,
the harm it would make;
more disastrous than the worst earthquake,
more torn than a country before civil war,
and though I'd be on the same streets,
and my body you could easily recognize,
the mind and heart of the boy you knew,
would never be the same again,
But I promise to thee,
that of which you'll never see,
are my tears as you walk away from me.
eyt*