he sat and stared as they laughed,
in an evening fall,
and a downing rain,
in their joy he found amusement,
he did not fit,
and as they chatted the darkness in,
he raced thoughts to the lone road he took,
up into the ghostly forest,
into the whistling beast that on many feast,
to disappear into the welcoming hands,
of a never failing fog,
to the freezing shack he called home,
and so he sat amazed by they,
not a little sadness on his face,
but a clot of a tear that life had given,
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