Burying an old Man
As I lower this casket into the ground,
I painfully aware of the lack of people around.
No friends or lovers left to say good bye,
They're just happy to let the old man die.
But here I stand, the only one
I won't leave until the job is done.
They said he had a really lonesome life,
That no one loved him, not even his wife.
That he had doubts at every turn,
All he ever felt was emptiness burn.
But I know that's not true,
Way deep down, he loved too.
But fear and pain, they stripped of his name,
Until the purpose of life he thought was vain.
He always hesitated, always felted baited.
Worried that the world would leave him suffocated.
He couldn't bring himself to trust,
He was afraid his heart would bust.
And that's what I see on this mans grave-stone,
That because of all these things he died a-lone.
The worst part of this whole story you have yet to see,
Because the person that I'm burying is me.
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Comments about this poem (Burying an old Man by Andrew Hinton )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(13 September 1916 – 23 November 1990)
(August 19, 1902 – May 19, 1971)
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