A lonely road he walked,
That lead to Nowhere Lane,
Hands in pockets, collar turned up,
To keep the night cold at bay.
" I've walked this way before " he mused,
" This same old twisted road ",
Each time with a purpose,
To shift his heavy load.
He shrugs his sagging shoulders,
Increases his shallow pace,
" Will i make it? " he wonders,
As the wind lashes his face.
He trudges through the winter rain,
His toes curled from the cold,
Glad of the coat around him,
Though tattered, worn and old.
He stops for the night,
Too weary to go on,
He sits by the roadside,
And hums himself a song.
A man, ravaged with age,
Then lays down to rest,
Closes his eyes,
And takes his last breath.
He began this journey,
This quest meant to save,
This stretch of lonely road he walked,
Has now become his grave.
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