The man who nursed his pain away,
With nothing more than silenced breaths,
He lived a life of modesty, in spite of his decay.
It crept up and clenched his hand
To say it’s time to go,
And he looked up with his ashen face
To let Death know he knows.
Far beyond the heavens’ reach
Where insects, secrets and rainwater seep,
He lies beneath the mounded soil, the roses
At his feet.