Rick Swartzentrover


The Hermit sits in his four-walled prison
  He is ever alone but not by choice


Abandoned and betrayed, cold and bitter he sits alone
  He dreamt he had friends once in a far off land


But they are too far and perhaps they never existed
  Except in a momentary dream of a short vacation


Everyday is the same, every moment like the last
  No one touches. no one hugs, no lover to kiss


He hears people say life is too short
  But for him life is never short enough


He lays in bed and dreams of a life that will never be
  A life not filled with alone but full of we