Dead Man Walking

All that was loved is lost and gone,
home and hearth but barest stone,
and the clock's tick talks to him, alone,
as it mocks the dead man walking.

Cold, thin hands sweep lifeless face,
treasured memories to erase,
while fading forms still leave their trace
to whisper, "Dead man walking."

When will the living ghosts appear
to comfort someone once held dear?
Will kindness ever draw them near
to the dead man walking?

Perhaps they'll fill the deathbed scene,
where public grief forgives the mean,
and some, too late, may bend and lean
to soothe the dead man, talking.

His image, too, will pale, at last.
A shade of someone else's past.
Who will light the shadow cast
by the dead man walking?