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Artist
The Last Man
He does not turn.
Not because he is brave,
but because he has already learned
what faces cost.
The others carry tomorrow
like a rumor in their coats,
light enough to follow the birds,
heavy enough to leave him here.
He stands where the ground still remembers
every footstep that did not return.
Mist clings to him
the way names cling to old letters,
unopened, but never forgotten.
He is not abandoned.
He is appointed.
Someone must remain
so departure knows it happened.
Someone must hold the silence steady
while the world practices moving on.
If you think he is alone,
you have not listened carefully enough.
The wind knows him.
The ink knows him.
Even the birds hesitate
before crossing the last sentence of the sky.
He is the last man
not because he survived,
but because he agreed
to remember.
