Glance down upon him, cold and dead
bones protruding, emaciated, eyes filled with pain
no more to shiver nights in his infested bed
he shall not walk among the living dead again
The furnace waits, anticipating heat
unto this end, is that all he deserves
no coffin, no marker, not even a sheet
to cover the bony frame that once held curves
twisted, tortured he lays upon the floor
once he was handsome and proud
a leader among men, he stood out in a crowd
there's nothing left of what he was before
once I held him and laid down at this side
somehow he seems so much smaller,
shrunken up so now that he's died
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