There's an old man I know, though not well.
You must login to vote
He's bent with age.
He stands by a stream where the woods used to be.
His reflection dances where the light meets the water.
The image he sees is transitory,
But he doesn't see himself anymore.
He remembers the smoothness of his skin
And the grace of his limbs,
Though he never stooped to see them then.
The stream was brighter then too.
Its dirty now. It doesn't taste the same.
Before the cars. And the wall.
Before the ground changed.
Before the fence.
He could feel the fence even now,
Rusting deep within him.
The wounds are old but the scars still ache.
When the wind blows.
When the fence moves.
He can feel his body softening,
The cold bites harder now,
In the limbs he can still feel.
He can feel himself slipping
Since the ground changed
And the green has gone.
Slowly, the soil washes from his feet
Into the stream.
There will be no leaves this spring.
He closes his eyes,
He can't bear to see.
The soil washes from his feet.
He can feel himself slipping.