Too Late
Far from this place,
Where peace escapes,
He ran, lost in the race,
No one cared for his fate.
Death's beckoning touch,
Drew him near,
His grave, a sanctuary,
Where mercy did appear.
All he had, a distant memory,
A broken story, filled with pain and agony,
Scars ran deep, far beneath the surface,
Yet he felt worthless, in vain.
Gone he'll be, and they'll cry, questioning the heavens, with dampened eyes.
Blind to the facade he wore, his soul vacant, his chamber lies.
But now they care, too late to show,
One last bow, as the lights lose their glow,
Into the abyss of nothingness,
In his eyes, a relief, better than living.
Goodbye, the only words he could say,
For on this day, he passed away.
Copyright ©
Trent Vecchiarino
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