Days pass, time grows old.
He sits there, a beard accumulating at his chin.
Soup’s gone cold on the table,
toast burnt beyond recognition.
Life goes on.
Not for him though.
Alone forever,
he holds the memories of his dear friends,
near his chest.
Death seems close,
the house cold, drowned of warmth.
Gas stove left on,
he arises from his seat.
No hope of a normal life returning.
Daily routines shattered,
cold and lifeless.
Found by the door,
investigation concluded, suicide determined.
Distant relatives shuffle along,
Cloaked in black, despair disguised.
Seven feet under,
He find peace away from the clawing of a restless mind.
PLEASE, PLEASE give feedback what does everyone think?
