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Poem

A cold, dead sun hangs in an unearthly black sky,
Casting putrid light onto barren monotone,
He finds himself afloat as frozen minutes pass by, 
No, not floating. Standing, in an of existence of his own,
Observing an alien landscape, of which he is not a part,
Detached from tearful events below,
Watching people gather, whilst waiting to depart,
The star of his own morbid show.

His gaze scans the mass of gathered faces,
Recollecting where each visage was first met,
Memories of times, people and places,
Some he loves to remember, some he longs to forget,
He identifies each person and their place within the scene,
Friends he held so dear and those he hardly knew,
Neglected family gathered together on the green,
With mother, still loving, despite all he put her through.

And then amongst the crowd he spies her,
The girl he would have married, if he’d ever dared,
To dream a life joined with another, a life laid bare,
But there never was a thing he wilfully shared,
Not possessions nor life nor heart nor truth,
Such things were his alone to be tasted,
And this to him becomes the final proof,
That his indeed was a life wasted.

The quiet audience take a solemn stance,
As the clergyman motions they are to begin,
Pall bearers bring the box to the centre of this merry dance,
No more than a shell of a man lies within,
A stranger’s words attempt to translate the soul,
As his mother looks on dry eyed and brave,
And the lonely box is lowered into the waiting hole,
An empty man in an empty grave.

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