Richard's Winter Poem by William Coyne

It seems death takes forever to come.
I want it to come,
but it will not budge
from it's dark and scary, shadowy place.

I frequently want a brief visiting
to kill only part,
and then to leave me
recovering less heavily laden.

A soft voice from dark recesses reply,
'You are on your own.
This I do not serve.
I only tote away your soul when dead.'

My impish taunters, sadness, self pity,
hurl cackles and smile,
and loneliness
consumes more remaining happiness.

Crumpled, catatonic upon my little bed,
there for days on end,
waiting for a friend
to stop and visit, kill this deadly thing.

But no knock I hear on the unlocked door,
not for years on end,
just strangers asking
directions, thanking me, then on their way.

Loving my life more than hating sadness,
and mean self pity,
I wait with wintered
discontent for this glorious Son of York.