A loner sits stranded
waiting by the door.

His eyes are filled with remorse
As if he was nothing more.

He looks at this painting
A painting he called 'His Life.'

His hands work nimberly
Flying to and fro, suddenly stopping

Only to drop down
As a teardrop did to.

Only to finally realize
what he was meant to do.

He stands up quickly
and wipes back a tear.

His hand reaching for a knife
He believes his conscious is clear.

He grabs one of the oil crayons
and sharpens the point.

He adds the finishing touches to his loving painting,
just to see the woman he adored so much stare back at him.