Can you spell cacophony?

What does the man do when the whole world collapses?
There was a foundation, now gone
Sure and sturdy is was, unmovable and firm
Now nothing more than vapour

For years it had been built upon
Room by room, brick upon brick
With the slab covered by builder’s guarantee
He took care with every extension

But was it just imagined? Was it ever really there?
His own wishful thinking made flesh?
Or piece by piece, day by day was that flesh eaten away
Until the world was left on dirt

So now he is holding up the walls, fighting the shifting sands
That fight all that is left
“My house still stands”, he screams to any who would hear
“For how long?”, he keeps to himself

Those who could be holding up the walls, inside and out
Are now the demolition contractors
“It is far too late to stop”, they say
And they make plans for the fall

So all alone, he watches the walls come crashing down
The house once loved, now despised
Crocodile tears shed for the demise of that grand old place
And the remains of the one who would not leave

It was poor art, the drawing of a child
A figure of a man
Feet spread apart, his arms open wide
Tears rolling down his face

Not a stick man but still just flat
No hair to speak of
Thick neck and small empty eyes
A line for a mouth. Pointing down.

Would I be weeping if it were me?
Left flat in the notebook
No way of sharing my distress. All alone.
Forgotten by the one who put me there

And what of that artist, with juvenile skills?
His own work imperfect
Did he leave to be with the Masters?
Surrounding himself with perfection.

Does he know how much he is like his man?
Mute to the world
Like a child with no language to share
It was he who drew the tears.