Jul
14
His empty shoulders slouch slow before him,
Speaking only in mutters of the heart
On his crumpled sleeve
Without his hope he moves still in shadows,
Hugging the edges of pale existence,
His force is scattered
There once was a time, though it’s now long past,
When happiness dripped from his countenance,
And puddled his path
His every now was an eternity,
His every then was a forgotten glance,
His will was a smile
But then his sun set in her distant West,
Throwing his lovely Autumn into Winter,
His puddle to dust
Now all he sees is yellowed existence,
Smiling empty from aging photographs,
Sepia sorrow
He tells a story to those who will hear,
But for most he is now little more, than
His slow rocking chair
