A winter chill

A bitter wind gusts in the face,
skritching leaves along the walk.
Soak-sodden pants whip at the legs
of the dying man who balked
at love and faith throughout his life.
Now with his final gasped breath born,
unknown, unwept, unloved, unmourned,
no child, no friend, no loved wife,
and regretting lost days gone,
but most his waste of time and place,
he falls his way to that clayey home,
bereft entire of both love and grace.

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