There's a bench in a park
That I know so well.
And on that bench is a man,
Taking his last few breaths.
Passerby's stop to look at the man,
And feel pity for him,
Yet do not send for an ambulance.
He is wearing clothes
That are not his own.
"God help my poor soul," he cries
On that cruel October night.
And this man,
Whom I've never met before,
Shares with me a kindred spirit
That I have not felt more.
And this place, I only know in dreams,
And his time, was long before mine.
Farewell to the late Mister Poe
And to the dreams you left behind.