It really is beautiful on this night
The sky is clear, the wind is refreshing
And a dead man is writing poetry
Well not exactly poetry, and he's not exactly dead
More so dead inside, expressing his feelings
Of which he has many, sometimes too much
He really is the wonder of humanity
Essentially removed from all thoughts of living
He exists purely as a matter of fact
But he's not depressed or sad even
He's accepted this, a dead man walking.