The wind whistles through every space
In the small house, though seemingly abandoned
A man trudges down the lonesome street to
This house, if he can call it a house
He is a young man but years of hard working
Have betrayed him into looking like an old man
He walks into the house full of nothing,
No promises, no family, or nothing to look forward to
Lighting a candle lights up the dark room
But this just illuminates the flaws
The cracked wood, allowing wind to come through
The irregular table, a shame for anyone to see
The small bed, barely long enough for him to stretch out in
With a look of despair he sits down at the lonesome
Table with nothing but stale bread and lukewarm water
He sits there waiting, waiting for something to hold on to
Nothing comes to him as he realizes that nothing will come to him
He takes small slow steps to his bed, then stares at the ceiling
Fearing that if he closes his eyes, it will all happen again
Working hard towards nothing, the lonesome feelings
And as he sleeps all his fears haunt him,
Never leaving his side