Another poem

I walk upon the crowd as a lone man,
My eyes like daggers, though my tongue a sword,
They look upon me gingerly, and I no not what they think,
Only what they say, how they act, and how they appear,
Eyes meet for an instance, but not a word is spoken,
and everyone continues on towards the dusk,
And they wrap themselves in silence,
rather than bear my cold shoulder,
the whole world knows nothing, and i as well.

Despite the silence, we still have our sight,
that which lets gather from this Earth;
With it, faces and sights are learned,
and we somehow become more-so
ready for our graves;
Those who judge with their eyes rejoice in such solemn manner,
and yet, on tier death bed, they squeal just as the pigs,
and whine just as their fathers did before them.

The silence continues, and the quiet suffer,
and all that is left are the vain,
those who laugh snidely,
some rejoicing in what wealth they might have,
and some complaining of the size of their monitor;
They will fight among themselves,
hoping to gather what they can from those who die before them,
and the vultures squeal with glee upon finding their inheritance,
though their deathbed will be just as petty as the rest.

And the silence my eyes instill,
the discomfort words enforce,
the cold that I would wrap around my being,
they mean nothing in the end;
For man's nature means nothing,
and no matter how we live,
vain,
prudent,
morose,
we all die alone.