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A silhouette of a lone person walking outside a tunnel opening
Photo by Chris Buckwald on Unsplash

I did all I could to avoid this, right?
It could be said I fought the good fight.
So how is it, when my time’s gone,
I’m left here to die alone?

I wasn’t the best, but definitely not the worst.
I gave despite the hurt.
Made others’ worries my own.
Still no one cared I’d die alone.

Bitterness, what good will it do?
Only I can taste its rue.
Why wish my time to prolong,
when I’d still probably die alone?

Or why wish to turn time back,
to right wrongs and errors subtract?
Still others in their place would have grown
and again I’d be here dying alone.

No epitaph could convey my regrets
unless my tombstone were a mountain’s cliff,
and though complete it wouldn’t hold
the pain of me dying alone.

As one is born, we’re destined to die.
Yet, then, there were people bedside.
No one stands here as shadows grow long,
and I silently exit this life alone.

Disclaimer: The views in this article are those of the author. Prison Journalism Project has verified the writer’s identity and basic facts such as the names of institutions mentioned.

Davel Walker is a poet incarcerated in California.