No expectations

Any hope for company is long gone,
No hand to hold as they prick me wrong,
No hand to pour me water when my throat is dry,
No body to cheer me while bored I lie,
No body comes as day turns to night,
No body calls before first light,

And then I begin to wonder,
Will there be shoulders to bear,
Me on life's last journey,
the answer stares me in the face,
As does the coroner's gurney.

So he lay there waiting,
he started hating,
every moment as it passed,
each one felt like the last,

He peered through the veil,
it all smelled old, stale
like it'd been there a while,
The food on the floor amongst stomach bile

He got up hurting, ginger,
He passed the crowded hall,
He didn't linger,
He didn't have the gall,

to see people,
Not when he was alone,
He felt feeble,
His heart as cold as stone

He dragged along this heart,
and played his part,
In other's lives unabating,
So that no-one else would just lay there waiting

in a galaxy far far away...

So this is my first attempt at a web comic.... lets see where this goes...

cast aside

I lay cold, wet, cast aside,
That fateful night something inside me died,
A quiet, miserable passing,
From this world to another,
And now the need to be solitary,
took me over, I was wary,
to love and be loved again,
to cast aside the cold,
only with the warmth of another,
for whom the fever raged high and heavy,
to hold and be held,
to be cast aside yet again...

TCP (excuse the syntax)

Red earth, dry heat,
Warrior steps out,
Crowd claps a rhythmic beat,
King readies for the bout,

Bends low touches the dust,
Straightening out feels the gust,
of wind carrying the smell,
of fresh carcass and the sound of chiming death bell,

Acute senses and steady heart,
Lion comes into thick of things,
Crowd reacts with a start,
To every last ounce of bravery he clings,

What happens after is for another place and another time,
For as of now this wandering poet is out of rhyme.

Calangute Blues...

Left, after right,
prints in the sand,
walking over the promised land,
I look ahead,
But can't help looking back,
and a pattern repeats,
In my head and with my feet,
I look as far back as a I can,
As far as a solitary man,
Can without losing his mind,
his identity and turning blind.

The prints are numerous,
They leave and then return,
But i never learn,
Two sets and then just one,
I stumble, again and again....

And then the lights come back on,
and i look up and see the figures,
Dark outlines against a blinding light,
Laughing, jeering, cheering at my plight,
As they watch and slight,
My every effort to get back up.

Lying there I look back again,
And watch the surf sweep onto the sand,
cover every open wound, the pain,
and freeze for an instant,
a minute, a year, an eternity,
and then sweep back,
leaving nothing but an empty canvas,
no history, no footprints,
no dark outlines, no memories,
just a new beginning,
and life goes on. Again.

The AC is too cold...

Start out with a blank slate,
open road stares you in the face,
you take the bait
and with a shifty unsure gait,

you are on the forsaken ground,
nobody with you
take a look around,
take in the lack of sights and sound

alone in infnity,
surrounded by nothingness,
you just want things to be
just want to taste, smell, feel

life for the first time,
all over again