Dead

He lived in a cell

But he called it a home

He scratched yer name in the floor

With a dried-up, old chicken bone.

The sun never shined

Through the cracks in his cell

He called it a home

But you might call it Hell.

For years and years

He lived those ways

And he never saw sunshine

'till the end of his days.

In the end his cell

Was to become his tomb

A simple sepulchre

Let's call it his room.

Copyright (c) 2024 Jeff Bayazit, All Rights Reserved