Last man standing

cometh the hour of sorrow

his firmness holds him still

he braces for the hard hit 

that makes a bee line

for a place 

ever so imperative 

the sudden yet expected 

tempest storm was not 

brewed in a cup 

but from setbacks 

ill luck became a

fruit of lady luck

and she did not smile

but he still held on firmly

to the faint line

of love

that he got scraps of

but was till harboured

in what might become

a shell of a man

the bruises may heal

the scars may hide

under his skin

but beneath the surface

lays a broken mortal

his spirit withered

and his soul

hovering over hope

and on the surface 

the mask stays

paper thin