Poetry of sky, washes clean the must of yesterday
dragging out the silent moan of anguish that was his life.
Seeing the futility of every day, he dove like a swan in winter
into a neverending life of numbness and pity, crying out for nothing
and receiving nothing.
His was a pointless existance
full of walls he built and pain he created,
full of evil he loved and malignancy,
full of the fruits of his actions and the knowledge of his fate.
He will be missed, in the way one misses a hangnail or a pair of uncomfortable shoes.
He will be mourned with the passing of each second and forgotten in a matter of minutes.
This was a life.