He sits with a stoic's resistance, <br /> his son in the casket lies there. <br /> No line of a tear mars his visage- <br /> the man with the Thousand yard stare. <br /> <br /> <br /> He sits in the front row of mourners, <br /> His dear sobbing wife by his side <br /> in silence he keeps his sad vigil <br /> and stares up at Christ crucified. <br /> <br /> <br /> The mourners pass by him in silence, <br /> touch his hand or say meaningless words, <br /> for his part he stares straight on through them <br /> as if nothings felt, nothings heard. <br /> <br /> The Parson commands us to silence <br /> and struggles to lead us in prayer- <br /> but half of the room has forgotten the words <br /> like the man with the thousand yard stare <br /> <br /> <br /> Death is my race's core competence <br /> dealing with life, we're but fair, <br /> but none living today keeps sorrow at bay <br /> not the man with the thousand yard stare.<br /><br />John F. McCullagh<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-man-with-the-thousand-yard-stare/
