At the station
A bench lay hollow in the utmost sphere,
Who knew but could not be at its dear,
Nor mail would drive it to the yesteryear,
So turn a callous cage whom thwart to greater fear,
But not said much luck in hope the guy does sit,
And leaving whence to board new lamps lit,
Though he ought and this he must ought
To dampen all spirits will tears cold be brought;
No tears are warm when the fire burns bright,
And here we hold man in mind to heart distraught
So soon he breaks to dark and sorrow down,
In all smiles and memory he could only frown,
Last his train had come board his life aways,
But could not hear nor see the other at bay,
This man whose drunken stupor is all but ways,
Found himself poking words sans base decry,
So some attention be brought to he his mum deny,
But could not! Couldn’t hear nor see. All lost.
Lost was the drunkard in fate’s lasting capture,
His words now critique the man in rupture,
With every second the death of he and he arrived,
But it was not his ego when last rest survived,
So finally that train went and the last another,
Age was brought much the crickets to bother,
So doors be opened, more people at large,
A first glance he took and all now is barge,
Then he boards the train and sits a while,
Nor legal weep and plead naive shall be vile,
For the train is gone and how fast it travels,
The lamps dimmer and soon his life unravels.
