The pains grown on him grown into him, You can see it in the drips of His tired eyes, In the extra 100 pounds of weight Around his waist, In the desperate laugh of A man longing for Affection. Death surrounds him in a Cloud of filthy humid loneliness. You would think, through So much sadness a dry and Respectful humor would encompass His company, No, A dying man attracts no laughter, With a wounded soldier comes only guilt.