He wiped his hand on the floor,
Trying to feel her warmth left within.
It was still fresh—the heat, the smell—
He could feel it, just as he did before.
They stare at him—family, strangers—
All those who had left him there.
He wasn't bothered by the hungry eyes;
Nothing here could make him care.
No land, no name, no more shadow,
Not a care about the surface.
Dirty, rotten, mangled, and dry,
He sits upon the tomb, looking at the sky.