A wan old man, well past his century,
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worn leather wrapped round a twisted stick,
rests on dew-cooled grass beside a silent lake.
His wife of fifty years, decades gone,
lays her face on his chest,
paint-peel thin, chest still, thistle down light.
His will-driven eyes give her dimension,
her breath soon whispers across his throat.
Years vanish, pealed from the sweet core of youth,
but she cannot be, here by this lake.
“You must part, find your peace,
tho it means I will never feel
you again in this life.”
The cloud thins, the whisper goes
and he lies alone in a shallow swale,
less of him than moments ago.