January 13, 2008
Poor, old man with your tired hands.
Your greasy hair smothers your neck,
while your eyes squint from the harsh, morning light.

Your face tells a story;
the universal one of a broken heart.
You sink into despair
as your kind heart grows cold.

Your intelligent mind begins to melt
as you let that liquid consume you.
Your stench seeks new heights,
your body slowly disintegrates.

You have changed,
but I still love you,
I know that young man is in there.

You may seem dead to some,
but you are still alive to me.

Post a Comment

Be the first to comment on this article!

Site Feedback