We All Die Alone.
I don't have a clever subtitle for this one.
We all die alone,
The same way we're born,
Company is an illusion from which we're all torn,
When all the bouquets are gone,
Remembered and replaced by no-one,
When the weather has been beaten down your gravestone,
And all the paths you walked are overgrown,
Just hope that you're known,
To have people talk of your throne or carve your name into stone,
Is the closest we have to not facing death alone.
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About the Creator
Tommy Ballard
I'm a professional writer, a poet, a digital artist and an amateur musician. In my free time, I can often be found pondering magnets, breaking and entering random homes to steal locks of human hair and throwing car batteries into the ocean.
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