Empty Park Bench
An empty park bench
Feels so bitterly cold,
It holds a lot of stories
Waiting to be told.
It once held a homeless man
Safe and secure,
A tender heart so true
And a kind soul so pure.
He went to bed here
Each and every night,
Was happy to be alive
With every new daylight.
He covered himself with newspapers
So he could keep himself warm,
Went out every day to collect change
With his violin, he would perform.
Now, the winds blow cold
The old man isn't there anymore,
He has passed away
The kindest of hearts so pure.
Copyright Cynthia Jones
Nov.12/2006
One of my titles I had written down.
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