What becomes of the lonely people

What becomes of the lonely people

What becomes of the lonely people

who get lost in dreams?

Who mouth soft words to empty walls

and stitch their past in silent screams.

They drift through rooms where no one knocks,

a coat hung limp on rusted hooks.

No letters left, no calls to take,

just shadowed hours and unread books.

They hum the tunes they used to know

to crowds that lived in better days.

Their hands recall, but never touch

the warmth that vanished in the haze.

They speak to ghosts with borrowed names

and dance with feet that once could run.

They light a flame for no one else,

then watch it flicker, one by one.

So what becomes of hearts so still,

who only live inside their heads?

They fold the dawn in paper thoughts,

and sleep in dreams of lives they led.

They sip the dusk like bitter wine,

and feast on things they never said.

No song to lift, no hand to hold,

I think they all are dread.