There is a man, who sits on the bench down the road. During the day.
He looks like there is a world he has seen, touched, tasted and felt, and dreamt to reality, but now he has, nothing and nothing to say.
His skin, is sagged and loose, there is a gullet of old age in his neck.
I turn my head away out of sheer respect.
There are tears in my eyes.
I want to hold his hand and ask him, 'What happened? Did you see her? Did.She.Leave? Do your children still call? Is there anything left of you here, anything at all?'
I sit here and weep and i wonder what he saw.
Whether i had seen it too, and done it and missed it, and missed it because of you?
My eyes they are tired.
More tired than my back or my pain.
They are tired from saving the day, and from walking in constant rain.
I picked out some bullets from old scars from way back when,
there were hit with some fine target practice of fine 'love' writing in the dark with the punch of a pen.
So i sit here, and i wonder if one day he will be me.
Wonder if he sat and wrote little dittys for a world, that he could not see,
for people he never met, for lovers who had up and gone, for those who had no story, no strength, no howl or battle song.
There is this old man, and he sits and he waits.
I want to ask him, Is there a future in this world that he awaits?
And i don't so i sit here and casually think of him awhile.
Before my mind turns to someone else, i can think of and love,
in my own spectacular, unique, philosophic, apathetic style.