I am but a shape that stands here

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They hail me as one living,
But don’t they know
That I have died of late years,
Untombed although?

I am but a shape that stands here,
A pulseless mould,
A pale past picture, screening
Ashes gone cold.

Not at a minute’s warning,
Not in a loud hour,
For me ceased Time’s enchantments
In hall and bower . . .

From The Dead Man Walking, by Thomas Hardy

In memories of my late friend, Jeff, who struggled for years with depressions before ending his own life. Jeff could never walked around with ease … clenched fists … stiff body as if he were always in a fight … Life goes on, but sometimes, I do miss my friend …