He sits there, real thoughtful

Not saying a word

His eyes are not focusing

At least not on this world

He is sad as he sits 

In his lonely room

In a chair by the window

In a corner a broom

Those are the only things in there

And none of them move

Until he opens the letter

by sliding his finger, tearing the groove

As he reads, his had starts shaking

Droplets fall, wetting the paper

Sobs shake him alone in is room

Sitting alone forever, later.