The sunset lodges behind his eyes.
The antique man of quality, who once lived down my street.
Now, he stipulates a will to stay inside, his dying eyes still open wide.
No tears are left to cry.
He already cried an ocean, from the depths of his lagoon.
Shed as falling leaves, just after his sweetheart died.
His wife was a wizened old soul, who'd stooped as she moved.
Her inefficient stiffness apparent just before she she died.
He wishes that morning would arrive.
So he could maybe join her for another sun-drenched day.
His body lives on, in defiance of death.
He wants to fight no more, but his body, he feels unjustly, is caught in the puzzle of life.
He sees the reaper call on his friends, almost daily, but his turn always seems neglected.
He reminisced, once it was said "only the good die young."
He didn't believe he'd been that bad.
"Missus must've been an angel", he muttered under his breath.
And still he waits.
(c)LIVVI