The Oldest Man

This man of the past was a shadowy figure. A moth flittering in the dusk, covering the earth; all in silence's dust. There was a time, back when, last time, in this place, are the words that come afterwards. Before, there are many conversations but not enough is said. Much is shared, but most of it is repeats. Original and deep are rare. We hope that our eyes and almost silent sighs convey all we hold within. But the man of black cloak is ever patient and ready. To bear and take the loved ones away. Like the cloud that slinks across the vista of the night sky veiling the ancient ones that give hope, they say it isn't all now, and it isn't all gone. But now and for a while I'll be left staring at the cloud that reflects no light.