He doesn't use an umbrella.

Raindrops touch his face as he walks,

cold and gentle, like a dead lover;


his eyes close, and he can almost pretend
that the world is as blank and dark and quiet
as it is behind his weary lids.

Soaked to the bone, tired, aching,

he comes home to his musty apartment


to numb his mind along with his body;
naked and shivering in front of the TV,
he is astounded by the horrors of humanity.

Ever-silent, watchful, pensive, he wanders the streets

and walks through the crowds as much as around them,


no longer seeking worship, nor even
the faintest glimmer of recognition
from the passerby.

For he is an old, impotent, and forgotten god
whose purpose once was to protect, and enlighten;
and then one cold day he realized
that out of all those who had professed adoration...

no one was going to save him.