The Man Who Died

There was something indistinct
About the man who killed himself,
As if he wasn't wholly there. Oh,
He always was most polite. He
Laughed a little after jokes,
But no one said they saw him
Joyful. No one saw him much
At all, or heard him walking.
No one seemed to notice
When he'd turned and gone,
And, when the landlord found
His body, cold, upon his kitchen
Floor, and word went out across
The village, we expressed a sort
Of sadness, mild, indistinct.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 56 times
Written on 2014-08-27 at 20:29

dott Save as a bookmark (requires login)
dott Write a comment (requires login)
dott Send as email (requires login)
dott Print text