He dies - - - Yet his heart still beats on

Man of the minute, slipping away in his chair
Into the quiet of the night.
The hullabaloo of his mind.
He slips and slouches, sipping his drink and sighing
Slipping into desperation

He looks at the time - - - behind the hand of the clock
And all the enemies of peace
Standing against an age ago,
Become dread itself, turning into the monster
And horror unravels the soul

The pin drop roars, but what good is screaming
Without an ear to hear?

How can the out-pouring of one’s heart heal,
With tension in the air?

So he welcomes the second death.