With miniature steak knives
a horde of hungry Lilliputians
saws away endlessly in me
at whatever it is that
makes one human.

Happily, they feast, ignoring
my attempts to befriend,
persuade, or deter them,
jabbering between
mouthfuls of me.

Ravenous pretenders, they.
Perpetual pain strips me
of sanity, knocks me
down, flat-backed,
ever alone.


*
Is it only I? Do others, too,
encounter such travails and
lose themselves, all hope
to territorial marauders
starved for some soul?

God, if you will not let me die, 
succumb, then would you not
send some fellow traveler
to share a moment of
silent knowing?

Calling out, I attempt to rise,
knowing that, if nothing else,
God, you remain present.
I’m met only with wee
voices singing.


*
Soul screams echo, reverberate
in chamber home they have
claimed now as their own.
Strength wanes in me.
People pass by.

Unable to lift body or spirit,
I turn in every direction
for comfort and relief.
Finding none, I rest,
listen for death.

A thousand invisible faces are 
not so easy to define. What
is missing most, far easier
to say: friends. One face
missing is yours.