A constellation of broken threads

A heart-wrenching chord of misery

Stretches from the headboard of his bed

Silent, supple, slippery.

And the spiders, millions of fingers on the harp

A deathly song on its rims play

A spooky spectacle that reigns in the dark

A dreary drama that's dispelled by the day.

And shimmer does its outline in the moonlight

A lustful, dancing snake that raises its hood

Upon the innocent man of sixty lying

Engulfed in the flames of his own firewood.

And as the chords of spine-chilling agony strike

Mounting a delicate crescendo

His haggard heart, already scalded white

Can no longer their burden hold.

Flutter open the eyes bloodshot,

And frantic, dart about the corners of the room

Glistening with the remains of the havoc wrought

By the malicious maids of the moon.

The clock ticks, and yet his time stands unmoved

The windows have their blinds tightly drawn;

And the fan hangs still, and tries to elude

The whiff of cool air that announces the dawn.

And he closes his eyes in dreadful reminiscence

A trembling hand upon the headboard resting,

And on his walking stick himself steadies

The residual strength of his legs testing;

Alas! They give away with a sickening crunch

And he plops back upon the bed; his eyes

Lustrous with a wave of salty drops

That should've been shed when shedding was wise;

For now all that was to be done is done;

He's lost what he'd lost and he's killed what he'd killed

And as his face lights up in a crescent of the Sun

His frail body convulses in a statue rigid.

The green veins freeze, the red eyes doze

And oh, he falls into a slumber

His lips kiss each other in the ultimate close,

Oh, could they ever get any dumber?

Yea, he passes away, an old, old man

Wrapped in the coffin of his own choices

Clutching his throat, dear Destiny's hand

Singing to him in familiar voices.

Voices that tell him he should've listened to them

Voices that rebuke his lowly soul

Voices he knows at last were telling the truth

Voices that can't help him anymore.

And woe thus betode, the soul who forgoed,

His peace and for material wealth

Chose to dwell on the deserted road

Bordered by memories and cobwebs.