Apparently he died alone.

The year which had taken greats and the loved,

by its own admission, Time had murdered

them all without malice,

with charm and pity, sad

for the sadness Time had caused

as it placed a hand over the faces

and blew out their waxen candles

one last time, celebrated, wailing

and tears, celebrity bringing its own

terminal end with a semblance of togetherness.

Yet he died alone, in a doorway,

February cold his warmth

as he shut his eyes and huddled closer,