The lonely grave child sits by the grave;

He desires a feeling, a feeling he craves.

He's searching for love, for companionship;

He traces RIP with a fingertip.

Measuring life spans, a blood-red banshee;

He's counting through each year: one, two, three.

He feels the gravestone, the stone so cold,

To him this stone is worth more than gold.

For, unto him, the world has been blind,

They've left him alone and far behind.

But he is strong, he doesn't cry,

Even as the world passes him by.

And then one morning, he is gone.

The world doesn't notice, the world moves on.

He's left to meet those beneath the graves,

And now he's not alone, he's loved and he's brave.