Of Times of Her
The old man sat on a bench. He watched the fountain water flow.
The pigeons gathered at his feet, he couldn’t feed them so off they would go.
He listened as the water sang it’s song, as he closed his eyes the memories of love began to fill the holes.
Her smile in the sun on the beach, her touch so delicate he couldn’t let go.
Her laugh so warm it’s all he’d hear, her face so soft in the evening glow.
He would sit here each night on his way to his house now a quiet, almost lost, cold home.
This is where he felt the warmth of her love. Under falling water his tears couldn’t show.
The memories of love after life in the dark, in the night, all alone.
The memories of love after life, of times of her, a soul of grace, of beauty, of kindness, a soul of love that he will never, ever, ever let grow old.
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