The Man Who Died Alone

Dear readers…
This came to me this evening. Not sure where from (my muse is obviously in a maudlin mood) but the image I saw was a man who died alone in a dark and dusty room. I hope you like it.

No songs were sung in honour
Of a life spent as a stone,
Hard and cold in penance
For sins he can’t atone,
The clocks are stopped and silent
For the man who died alone.

No faces touched by sorrow
No pain felt to the bone,
He squandered all his chances
And reaped all that was sown,
So now the dust will settle on
The man who died alone.

The doors he closed on friendship
And joy he could have known,
The salting of his garden where
Loves flowers may have grown,
He chose a life so empty
The man who died alone.

Ring not the bells in mourning
Sound not a somber tone,
The mirrors are uncovered
The cawing crows are flown,
He does not merit such a grief
The man who died alone.

Time will dull his memory
His name will be unknown,
The castle of his lonely soul
Will hold an empty throne,
The world will turn and leave behind
The man who died alone.


3 Responses to The Man Who Died Alone

  1. swo8 says:

    Sounds like a sad testament to a life wasted.

    • Simon says:

      Thanks for reading Leslie.
      Yes, it does speak of a desolate life doesn’t it, but it was just something that was pulled from the depths of my murky mind.
      Thanks again for reading and for taking the time to comment

  2. Pingback: Buried | Experimental Fiction

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