He really won't be missed by most, and yet...
So sure, so gone, so not. He lived; he died.
I rarely really liked the guy, still yet...
One wanders through the lanes of life, despised,
And oftentimes leaves lost, abashed, confused.
Directions may be mired yet memorized,
As heartaches haunt and hie to be enthused.
He shot himself, alone, in pain, eschewed,
Last laid his funeral frocks upon his bed,
Calm caring after life how he was viewed
By those despised, yet mist. The books unread!
He lavished little on my life. The gist:
I languish on the lips he could have kissed.
"There is but one truly serious philosophical problem and that is suicide."
ALBERT CAMUS
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