What will they say? A man of little consequence passed, like a ghost, leaving no trace. Actions, words, absurd thought — he ought to, for sure, have amounted to more. The only trace — a broken track through bracken. Fractured promises, fatuous premises — only wounds to mark his wake. His heart was in the wrong place. He never lied (to your face). Faint praise, erased by memories of tragedies and travesties. Lost significance. Lacking diligence. Must. Try. Harder. Always harder — never softer. Malodorous man-child, weak and wanting — Waits on a tricycle, wending cyclical figures-of-eight under bare-branched canopies of breeze-blown trees. The trail of a spectre — no rock turned.