There is death in life
But no life in death
Though the artists don’t seem to know it
As I weep for my heart
It weeps never for me
And I sit there alone and don’t show it
While the drunkards think
And the scholars drink
I find crying, sad, the poet
As he sits and sighs
And he wonders why
There’s a rose with no one to grow it

In a crowd I find
The wearisome kind
No souls mixed in with the flock
So I find my lone corner
For I seem the lone mourner
But I find a lone wight and we talk
We converse for an hour
Till the whiskey goes sour
And away all the folks finally walk
Then I find that he’s gone
And my mind is a con
Though it happens too often to shock

In the silence of night
So loud is the light
That exists for disturbance and killing
But in day I can see
People dancing with glee
And I find such a sight to be chilling
Let me sleep through such times
And not suffer your minds
For these years are so far less than thrilling
Let your company cease
For in tears I find peace
And this life needs much more than mere willing