Who Is That There

Who is that person resting there, seated in my favourite chair, looks familiar in a way though older far and worn and grey. He can’t be him that lives in me, who is much younger physically, I see that old man’s stamped by time whilst he in me’s of modern clime. His carriage is so stooped and small whilst he in me stands straight and tall, look how his face is furrow rent, his hands blue veined with fingers bent . The man in me just yesterday with wife and children bright and gay whilst that man there, sat in my home, long isolated and alone. Those letters scattered on the floor, notes from the dead gone to the fore, I recognise one from my friend, I see my mother’s flowing hand. Look at that album on his knee, that man’s steeped in adversity, why does he weep a gentle cry o’er images of days gone by. My inner self loves all the world, whilst that man looks so stern and churled but why is he dressed in my clothes, seated in familiar pose. Time races fast away I know, though step a pace to with it go, I’ll keep my distance if I can, I never want to meet that man.