Now.

[spearfrombehind]

So he sleeps with his arm over a pillow,
And his hair against a head board,
In an empty bed,
He sits in a chair with his legs outstretched,
And turns every time he senses someone behind him,
Only to find nothing,
But four walls painted white,
With holes in them,
The food is stale,
And the air even older,
Doors remaining shut,
And mirrors broken,
He walks down a drive way full of cracks,
Past a car full of dints,
To mailbox with nothing in it,
The sun sets behind the trees,
As he stares to the tops of them,
And smiles.