In twilight’s hush, where shadows dance and play,

An old man dwells, in solitude and gray.

His house, a relic, worn by time’s decay,

Cracked walls and dusty floors tell tales of the day.

No warmth of love, no care, does he receive,

No gentle hand brings him food to eat;

He’s left to fend, with no fresh clothes to wear,

His life a slow fade, like autumn leaves to greet.

His plates, unwashed, his clothes in disarray,

His world a mess, in neglect’s dismay;

And now a cold has taken its toll, they say,

The old man suffers in his lonely way.

He’s forgotten by all, in his crumbling nest,

He waits in silence for

eternal rest.