What becomes of the lonely people
I think they all are dead
What becomes of the lonely people
What becomes of the lonely people
who get lost in dreams?
Who mouth soft words to empty walls
and stitch their past in silent screams.
They drift through rooms where no one knocks,
a coat hung limp on rusted hooks.
No letters left, no calls to take,
just shadowed hours and unread books.
They hum the tunes they used to know
to crowds that lived in better days.
Their hands recall, but never touch
the warmth that vanished in the haze.
They speak to ghosts with borrowed names
and dance with feet that once could run.
They light a flame for no one else,
then watch it flicker, one by one.
So what becomes of hearts so still,
who only live inside their heads?
They fold the dawn in paper thoughts,
and sleep in dreams of lives they led.
They sip the dusk like bitter wine,
and feast on things they never said.
No song to lift, no hand to hold,
I think they all are dread.
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 (2)
This is just a really sad poem, and I could see that person roaming from room to room thinking that someone might still call. Good job.
Loneliness seems horrible. Awesome poem. Love the rhythm of it.