The Other Man In Black Poem by martin.j. schofield

Who am I? Clad as I am,
Expire by many when I walk my walk,
Tall as a mountain
And silent as a symphony of silhouettes,
That pay homage to my delivery;
Yet nothing is forthcoming;
Yet I hold the rainbow spiraling in my depth;
Yet I have no color to share,
But no need for prayer.
Who am I, that I will never prevail.
That I may ask for forgiveness,
Of those who despair.
Of a wailing mother whose indignation,
Is remedy for a son lost to her,
Gone from her lair.
A sound so de-viled, as to wash out the color,
From her tangled, dirt filled hair,
That fills her fists, as she trounces the ground
Beneath which his corpse lays.
Not wrapped in her arms.
Who am I? to witness this calamity,
A persecution of future stock,
Who am I? attired as thus,
Drab and dark beyond my years,
I tell ye I am nobody,
Nobody at all,
Yet I thrive, immersed in everyone,
With room to breathe,
Sadly I hear her wails,
'lay down to the ground to wrap around
A departed soul'.

'Reflection

As I peer brightly along the rigid line,
Lacking mobility, until ushered,
I realize I am barely living,
Living on the edge of our world,
Is it deemed a a sin
Reflective and woeful, I try hard to blink,
Flicker a moment for content.
To still the restless dormant spirit,
That persists -
Inspite of the risk.