I watch him.The ancient man.Feeding the birds.Cigarette dangling between two fingers like hope.Skin withered, weathered.Clothes as if retired from church.
There's no artifice, no pretense, derivation of false pleasures.Eyes smouldering with curiosity.Smelling of camphor and mentha.He's watched empires rise and fall.Fought in wars both great and small.Ran as a child through fields of green.Tumbled in the hay with countless women.Made wishes upon stars.His soul so young.
I can see his past years, like the incoming tide.I can see his heart, fresh like a handpicked rose.I watch him dying, one day at a time.And I sit with him, stoically holding hands..........
D.M. almost 9 years ago
Excellent portrait! 'Love the clothes as if retired from church.
Samantha Grace Bishop almost 9 years ago
Thanks so much for your comment, Drew!