An Old Man

He must have loved them much,
His children, his innocent wife.

Through rising, running, rippling tears,
his pain translates to flowing waters,
where softly, like sea-foam, float -
the memories of his past,
slowly, out to nothingness.

A fish fresh out of water,
he still flaps his slippery fins
groping for warmth - tepid coastal waters.
His rhythmic dance of slow death
has now,
carried him on wearied legs
to some mirages -
some wounded healers
carrying flaking placards
of some mistaken nobility.

He with his tried tears,
pours out again
his withered heart,
into unwilling palms,
shrinking surreptitiously
from his wizened countenance.
He curses in mumbled words,
(wrath of hellfire)
his ungrateful son.
Kisses the few kind words
(with flowing tears)
spared his way.

In the unblemished mirror,
of his lonely sorrow -
I see reflected,
me, him, all.

We are,
He is,
I am -
all, dreadfully alone.

Dec 21st, 08