Mr. Lonely

No soul to call mine own,
I am most sorely lonely.
So weary of this barren throne,
I stand the one and only.

 

Desolation and Solitude,
Mine only faithful companions be;
They clasp me like a winding shroud,
In endless hues of midnight’s sea.

 

The distant bell lies cold and still,
No voice shall ever pierce the gloom;
All echoes of long-vanished mirth
Have perished, leaving but a tomb.

 

I speak to walls that answer not,
Confess my soul to dust and shade;
Each dawn condemns me as the stranger,
In chambers reeking of love decayed.

 

Mr. Lonely is my name,
Graven deep within this hollow breast;
I wear the mask, I play the game,
Yet naught within me now doth rest.

 

No morn shall mend what Time hath broken,
No hand shall reach across the night;
I am the last and lone-forsaken token
Of a heart that lost its final fight.

 

This is the end I ever feared—
A wretch who fades without a sound,
Forever lonely, ever here,
Six feet of silence in the ground.