The old man sits in a wooden chair,
worn from years of use.
The fire is ablaze behind him,
warming his body, cold from the snowy weather.
It’s silent in the house, the only noise is the man’s steady breathing
In, out, in, out, in
His head in his hands, the weight of the world on his shoulders.
A long night of nightmares,
of gunshots and dead brothers.
The memories stay with him,
even after years away from the battle.
They plague his mind, infest his dreams.
He wishes he could be freed of them day in and day out.
But for now, he only sits
in the wooden chair because it is like him,
worn out from years of use.
This is a poem based off of Van Gogh's oil painting "At Eternity's Gate"
