He’s gone.
Alone in a strange room,
Surrounded by strangers,
He slipped away in the night,
Like a passing shadow,
As if ashamed of his own death.
And I am left to ponder,
Why him and not me?
And how can it be,
That the hand that spins,
The roulette wheel of life,
Can be so cold and devoid of humanity,
To end men’s life this way,
And steal their final dignity.
I stand in turn,
And sometimes envy those,
That have gone before,
And no longer have to wait in dread,
But sleep in mindless eternity.
