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Tuesday, September 30, 2014

The Old Man

The old man sat
on the frail perch of dawn
As he usually did,
He'd left his shoes on

from the day before,
afraid, perhaps
if he had not
this would be the last

resting place
for his failing heart
the final stop
for his one last start

The sun crept in
through his high stone walls
a deafening silence 
filled the halls

Spiders spun
across his door
he didn't need it
anymore

Dreams lay scattered
across his mind
he did not dare
to organize

them into days, 
months or years
Rust must not
revert to tears

He laid out his medals
He numbered his wounds
He knew that the hour
was coming soon

He pulled out a picture
then tossed it aside
who was that stranger,
that face of a bride?

One hundred years
at forty-two
Autumn, it had
come too soon

the clock had stopped
twelve-o-five
t'was the hour she left
He'd already died.




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