The Death Of A lonely Man

This night it seems a dark hand's touch,
Reached out for this lonely man;
Combed its fingers through his hair,
And left him once again.

In his thoughts while standing there,
Upon a frozen river's edge;
Looking back upon a life long spent,
And wishing he were dead.

Not many a day has passed him by,
That gave him thoughts of good;
For though it was a demon's night,
He has never understood.

That life has a way of throwing the chips,
That in dust has left him lay;
For in his drunken state of mind,
He stood there with a sway.

And in the north of winters chill,
In grasp of Decembers hand;
The drunken man reached out a fist,
And shook it at the land.

As quickly as the chill had found him there,
He dropped down upon the snow;
He found himself just fading off,
In the comfort of 40 below.

He held so tightly thoughts of life,
A hope for the things he’s tried;
Blankly staring up at the sky,
With his bottle in hand he died...