"Where did he go?"
The one who asked the question.
He does not believe it so.
That he should move to the next section.

From the heart of a mother.
To the love of the son.
And the bond of his father.
Brought together into none.

Albert did not live and love,
from the beginning of his life he kept,
And himself was made safe through the rough.
Only by himself, for himself had he wept.

And when he was known to be gone.
There was almost no one to weep.
And the few who shed tears, some.
They knew his broken heart would not beat.

It had lived with a hole,
so open and bleeding.
And in his words, it did show.
A friend to hold it closed he was needing.

And the books in his house were of adventure.
The thoughts on his head were of struggle.
His poems published online of indenture,
That his unwell mind was mired in trouble.

And they spoke of a girl he once knew.
And the investigator, most likely, he thought.
"I think Albert took his life, and he threw.
And with that, a lot of trouble for us he brought."

Albert never wanted to bring others trouble.
But it seemed he couldn't help it, even when away.
And as the papers were brought to a file and wrapped in a bundle.
The case was brought to an end that day.

But Albert was alive and with a stumble.
He was here now, he was here to stay.