Foot falls falling in the same foot holes
Made by yesterday's solemn venture,
The old man tracks his way down the torn road,
The same road he crawled along yesterday.
Alone.
And tomorrow he'll meet his wife along the way.
Yes, tomorrow she'll be there, down on the corner,
Where she used to wait, silently, for him, after work.
Yes, he was sure this time, tomorrow she'll be there.
Still alone.
Poems scrawled across tattered parchment in her lap,
Pages of her desolation, pages from her memory,
Isolation. She tells her family she likes it like this,
A transparent lie her parents never see through.
Alone.
And tomorrow they'll stop tormenting her endlessly.
Yeah, tomorrow they'll be her friends, they'll be nice
And they'd all go to the cinema and be happy. Friends.
Yeah, she was sure, tomorrow she'd make friends.
Alone.
Still alone.
Still waiting.