Last Memories of a Warrior
Aging jagged skin gave him depth in perceiving eyes
Ridged hands defined he was a man of work
Seldom had he spoken and when he did he uttered wisdom
He smelled a storm from a thousand miles away
He peacefully sat on the withered porch gently swaying in his wooden chair
Played melodic tunes of his blues harp which complemented sounds of the tempest
He was a man of time
Mistakenly I witnessed him at an undisturbed time of vulnerability
Tears flowed from his enlightened eyes dampening the tobacco stained shirt
Mesmerized of sorrow I was seized by an inescapable plague of tears
tears halted of time
Minutes later he entered,
Hands of labor, body of strength, and eyes of wisdom,
What’s wrong he asked, I had no answered
I didn’t know shrugging my shoulders
He knelled down on aching joints
Wisdom whispered from his lips to my ears for the last time
“Even Warriors cry James”
“Even Warriors cry”
Copyright © James Faulkner | Year Posted 2008
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