Within these walls live a broken man,
Whose spirit has slipped to naught,
For a life of loneliness and bleak despair,
Has left him lost in shadowed thought,

He shows hate toward most everyone,
For reasons he can’t tell,
Slowly digging his own grave,
For his cold and empty shell.

Quiet mornings start his day,
No conversations here,
His only companions are his own thoughts,
But they bring him no cheer.

Each day brings him closer to death,
But he does not fear its hold,
All he foresees is peaceful rest,
In the ground dark and cold.