Old Man
An unsociable, ill bred, unrefined man.
And his captious, callous, long-suffering, old spirit.
Cadaverous and frail amidst the morning walk of thier land.
Wheezing from the years of cylinder embers burnt in hand.
His quivering digits, gesturing openly to his coat pocket.
As he stops to gaze and take in, the wide open grand.
He pulls out a letter, kept in form by a dark green signet.
And now slowly he begins to unroll the leaflet.
Replaced by the paper now, are the open fields.
His hazel brown eyes, entranced by the letter held so dear.
Its now captured him, as a poem hes revealed,
and his face remarks a wound unhealed.
Brother, have i done wrong?
Am i supposed to feel strong?
Your pendulum stopped by my own hands.
Brother have i done wrong?
Am i supposed to feel strong?
For now im alone, to wonder these lands.
Brother, have i done wrong?
The brightness of the grand now lyes on the mans eyes.
Clouded, blurry, teard up sky, a floating feeling of lost goodbyes.
Now tendered from emotion, there he stood.
To live in the day his brother died.
Copyright © Kevin Watmough | Year Posted 2011
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