The old man is in the wilderness,
His children never borne.
His parents torn.
He lives alone.
And he likes it so.
No one to tell him what to do.
No government to bore him too.
No lost or love...
Little effort, and much fun.
Yet still for this man,
There feels a hole,
Something inescapable,
Yet not quite describable,
Somewhere within him,
Something is missing.
Lacking a vocabulary,
He finds himself lacking.
So he carries on his day
Chopping wood for winter,
Eating fish for dinner,
Beating his dog for pleasure,
And sleeping for leisure,
He lives a simple life,
One away from danger.
A hatchet for protection,
And a musket for intervention.
But slowly the hole grew.
Until it weighted more than he did.
Bigger and stronger than he,
Eating him from inside.
Yet he was a stubborn man,
And he would rather die,
Then ask for help.
Or a neighborly "Hi,"
So his illness went untreated,
And his loneliness grew.
He beat his dog more,
and ate a little less.
Cried at night,
And knew naught why.
Like a black hole it consumed,
Everything it could see,
That hole slowly grew,
From out his heart it bleeds.
One Day,
Their was nothing left.
Just the hole,
In the guise of man.
It did not move,
And it did not breathe.
The dog had already went away...