The Old Man

[birgitta_nell@y]

The late evening sun quietly dapples he ground at his feet
Dropping shy splashes of gold on the dying grass.
Behind him the sounds of the city roar viscously
Playing ceaselessly in his ears,
A dull requiem.
His misty eyes look upward into the clouds
The endless voids of eternity stretching before him
Such menacing beauty, so close.
Looking backwards in time
He wonders what his life was all about;
Wonders if there is a point to any of the long roads he has traveled.
A collection of black and white photographs
Sum up the extent of his existence;
Faded memories are all that is left for him now.
What was the point?
The victories and failures seem trivial now
Useless and meaningless in the face of Time.
While such thought dance through his mind
The sun begins to set slowly on another day.
The world around him drones on tirelessly
Ceaselessly ,
As he puts his head back shakily
And resigns himself to a world of higher truths
That in this life, he could never understand.

[ampoule]

That is a lovely poem, birgitta. The sun in shy splashes is very pretty.