The Eyes of Orpheus

He was going to be president,
someday, lost to the transient, raging
wind that flows from east to west
as the earth, clutching us and binding us,
turned ever so slowly.

He really was going to be Someone
who lived up to and exceeded
the expectations of each dew-kissed day,
who knew his path, and was strong enough
to force his way through the walls
of air that blow from nowhere to nowhere,
now just scattering ashes
until they condense into form:
to lean pale features, to sinewy and scarred hands,
and the cold, focused eyes of someone
who has seen it, lost it,
And still desires.