Alone a tired man writes,
The scratches of pencil on paper his only companion in the room,
Writing down his experiences,
Hoping someone will read them one day.

His shoulders are slightly slumped,
As if weighted down by all he has seen and done,
A physical presence that never leaves him,
A great yet terrible burden he bared.

His once -sharp eyes are slightly dulled,
As if to filter the things he now sees,
Through the tint that is the past.

His hair is grey,
The dark hair he once had long since changed,
A new grey hair with every lesson learned,
Lessons he writes down.

Scars can be easily seen on his tan skin,
Traversing from his gnarled fingers,
Up across the backs of his hands and disappearing up past his elbows,
Hidden by his rolled up sleeves,
A roadmap of past knicks, cuts, and mistakes.

The scratching continues in the room,
With pauses only for him to put a filled piece of paper into the growing stack,
Drawing a blank one and continue writing once again.