Lost

I see a man, stepping from the haze,
with a wooden trod and his clothes ablaze.
He seems asleep, or perhaps half dead,
his gaze unseeing naught but in his head.
His face is a mess and he continues to bleed,
while behind him, the rats come to feed.
The smoke wafts about as he passes by,
the pain he excudes causing me to cry.
The wreckage about gives me a pause,
to wonder what on earth could be the cause.
From the slump in his shoulders and frame,
I guess that things cannot ever be the same.
His world in ruin, he continues to sob,
for in his loss, are the rules of the job.
He has conquered all in any situation given,
but this time his hope has been forever riven.
The rain pours down as if to mock,
but he continues on with his slow walk.
The battle is won, but he cannot care,
for on this night he lost his one fair.

Airsick bag, or, this is really going to piss people off.

Spiraling around and again, ever so
my head twists and lurches,
and spins away in a daze;
swirling and whirling I say
while the world whiles away
spinning through space.