As his blood thins by the day,
His words desert him,
Tired of the long thirty odd years,
His chances are slim.
A man lonelier, I have never seen,
He is like fungi, on shit he has grown.
Fuck lovers and friends,
Even a family he has never known.
How do I comfort him?
I am a tough dog now, I don’t cry.
I wish I could showcase his life for him.
But let it be. Let the poor man die.
Fantasies, a poet can’t live by,
I wouldn’t bother asking why.
Can’t help free people acting shy,
Some people don’t get to say goodbye.
