The Paper Man of Bordeax

Locked in solitude, locked in grace,

A man left with many thoughts to chase,

And confined to a bed, confined to the cold,

He spent days on suffering, a perseverance so bold.

 

Deprived of touch, deprived of taste,

Abandoned by those purely disgraced,

Stripped of sensation, stripped of emotion,

A man with no words, a most dire devotion,

 

Denied the rights of freedom, of independence,

The paper man lusts in the memory of his transcendence.

A mind so crippled, with thoughts so torn,

His paper heart, with fickle veins so worn,

 

Unanswered prayers, his health betrayed,

Kisses flee and hugs fade,

Not a woman’s touch nor a child’s smile,

To pierce this segregation, so bitterly vile,

 

He felt not her warmth, not the gaze of her eyes,

Accepting his death and his destined demise,

He knew of no reason, no basis, no treason,

The man’s melted wishes wouldn’t save him this season.

 

Alone atop a balcony, peppered with snow,

The paper man watched blissfully, over Bordeaux,

And with the realisation, he’d been part of something profound,

He pondered learnt lessons in which he’d forever drowned.

    

He fell asleep in eternal rest,

Leaving the life so worthy of detest

The paper man deprived of thought,

Deprived of love, deprived, forgot.