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 …