I sit alone and mark the time -
aware of how the hours crawl -
with solitude a friend of mine.
I find my thoughts a careless scrawl,
meandering among the days -
myself the loser in it all.
I view my world through lonely haze,
aware of loss on which I stand
and never think to mend my ways.
There's not a soul to lend a hand;
there's not a man to call me friend.