Scored poorly in this life -
	not rife with love but held in cold.
Scored deeply in this life -
	by pain of scorn, a bitter hold...

upon my spirit that once thought
	to hope for warmth, sought for so long
while salt was spilled this time, instead
	as to the darkness I was lead.

There is a bleeding from the wounds
	that have not healed, not yet are sealed
and as the salt flows into them
	the searing of my soul keeps on.

Was made forlorn, looked down upon
	and passed over, so many times
by ones desired, craved all so deep
	yet none would keep, hold me in mind.

Not one would crave or yearn or want
	in turn to have me hold them close -
to have me yearn, so please their heart
	and free me from the bitter hold.

So flesh grows cold and tight and weak,
	and they have stolen that I seek.
Now left here, punished for some crime -
	some sin I swear was never sinned.

I've lost that time dealt out for joy.
	This man - so old - still but a boy,
locked in the past where want denied
	has trapped me in its bitter hold.

Shall soon be snapped, the thread that ties
	that one that lies behind in pain,
and then the child will cry in cold
	as I - so old - am lead to death.

Then all the sorrow that I've fealt
	and all the sadness dealt my way
will vanish with my weightless life,
	as if its import never was.

And from the void, when once reborn,
	perhaps the next time not forlorn -
a hope for love, perhaps to meet
	and lift me from this life's defeat.