He just stands there, looking down.
Hands in his big black sweater's pockets.
Long red hair over his eyes.
Standing, quiet as the long dead.
A breeze rolls along his hair sways to the soft breeze.
He's quiet, still as a dead clock's second hand.
His black jacket hoody doesn't move.
The lonely loner walks away, hands still in his pockets.
Not showing emotion, quiet, still as the dead.

By me.