He walks the streets at night,
Spinning poetry into the air,
He thinks only of the emptiness inside,
Not of the void he's left behind him.
Walked out on two bright eyed daughters,
One long suffering wife.
He left them for this life.
A life of lonely prose,
Where no when cares,
He'll be alone when he goes,
On,
Into the infinite dark,
His daughters will not mourn him.
He was gone long before he left them.
