The years are ten
since your body died.
Fifteen since you fled in spirit.

That damn old sharpness and command you had
That keen sense of the ridiculous
Lost in the vexing of an unchosen labyrinth.

Our nervous laughter.
Our embarrassment for you.
Sidelong glances.
What to do?

You were looking around corners,
expecting the worst.
Each day, the maze grew more confounding.
Your shields were up,
and no one could get in.

We strangers let you lie
in a home that was not.
We came and fed you,
shared the load
until you were done.
Helpless.  Helpless.

Just last night,
in my dream of blackened beams,
I watched, appalled,
as your mystic ghost rose in torment
from its wasted habit.

Embarked on the journey of the lost.