A lonely man,
alone he stands,
crying deep into his hands,
his life shelled in a can,
seeing life, and so he ran,
tears separating into strands,
his name never spoken of over the lands,
he is a lonely man.
His life is boring and awful too,
his joy short and brief like a word,
he hopes to meet something one day,
but he already knows he will rue,
the day he isn’t socially absurd,
so now he lives in dismay.
Sep 20, 2014
Sep 20, 2014 at 7:49 PM UTC
A lonely man,
alone he stands,
crying deep into his hands,
his life shelled in a can,
seeing life, and so he ran,
tears separating into strands,
his name never spoken of over the lands,
he is a lonely man.
His life is boring and awful too,
his joy short and brief like a word,
he hopes to meet something one day,
but he already knows he will rue,
the day he isn’t socially absurd,
so now he lives in dismay.
Sad to say but some people are plagued with a life like this. This is a Petrarchan poem.
