The Lost, the Lonely, and The Living
They walk in raincoats under sun
heads down, eyes on paving stones
no hand to hold, no need to run
just bones that ache and hearts alone
The lost sit quiet by the fire
once they danced, now they don’t recall
names worn thin and dreams grown tired
no stories left to tell at all
The lonely fill the rooms with sound
radios loud, TVs bright
cups for two still hang around
they talk to walls to get through night
And the living, they make do
count the hours, sweep the floor
speak to ghosts that once they knew
then lock again the heavy door
The world forgets them one by one
but they remember, sharp and clear
the ones who left, the things undone
the warmth that faded year by year
Not gone, not yet, just out of place
not seen, not heard, not quite forgiven
they carry time upon their face
the lost, the lonely, and the living
About the Creator
Marie381Uk
I've been writing poetry since the age of fourteen. With pen in hand, I wander through realms unseen. The pen holds power; ink reveals hidden thoughts. A poet may speak truth or weave a tale. You decide. Let pen and ink capture your mind❤️
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Comments (4)
In a way this is a way to learn more about the elderly who live around you and go out and seek them for they have a lot of knowledge to share if given a chance. Good job.
Wow, this is beautiful 💞
wow so good
"This piece speaks softly but deeply — a hauntingly beautiful reflection on isolation, memory, and quiet endurance. Every stanza carries the ache of being forgotten yet still holding on. It’s not just poetry; it’s truth wrapped in rhythm. Absolutely moving."