The lonely man sits upon a hill
Under the glint of a sky and the sway
Of golden, rustling sky
His hair gleams of streaking grey
Yet the blood still runs young in his humming veins
Stares out, into the roaming oblivion
His mind dwells on that of his past demons
He clasped his hands, his jaw set quiet and grim
The wind howls in his ears and scars from within
He sits quite still like the stupor of gin
His throat collapses and his back stiffens
A sudden spreading warmth touches his shoulder
And he look to the side and sees five delicate fingers
Clutching gently, the hand scarlet from the sun's linger
Twilight soon takes the couple by a starry fold
Of two companions with a story begging to be told