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We All Die Alone.

I don't have a clever subtitle for this one.

By Tommy BallardPublished 2 years ago Updated 2 years ago 1 min read

We all die alone,

The same way we're born,

Company is an illusion from which we're all torn,

When all the bouquets are gone,

Remembered and replaced by no-one,

When the weather has been beaten down your gravestone,

And all the paths you walked are overgrown,

Just hope that you're known,

To have people talk of your throne or carve your name into stone,

Is the closest we have to not facing death alone.

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artsad poetrysocial commentarysurreal poetryinspirational

About the Creator

Tommy Ballard

I'm a professional writer, a poet, a digital artist and an amateur musician. In my free time, I'm often be found pondering magnets, breaking and entering random homes to steal locks of human hair, and dosing snoring sleepyheads with Zyns

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