Blythe

An old man sits on a bench. Early fall leaves swirl past the shoulders of his frayed and worn coat. the brightly pigmented trees shudder in the wind and cry orange and red tears. The old man is tired. his ancient, creased face is sad. his milky eyes, which see nothing and yet see everything, are closed. his head is leaning on the back of the cracked, weathered brown bench that is holding his weight just as it always has, or has since anyone can remember. He is always there. people have talked to him, asked him why he sits there, and all he says is
"I'm waiting. I'm waiting for Her."





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