There was an old and gentle man,
The kindest there could be.
He stood no more than five feet tall
On thin and wobbly knees.

On simple things he cast a smile,
He often laughed with joy.
He had been loved by everyone
E’re since he was a boy.

But years had passed and as he aged,
Time had gone on and flown
Like birds set off on migration,
And left him all alone.

His friends with whom he'd shared his life
Had passed on to their graves.
He had nothing but loneliness,
Which was enough to brave.

Inside his home he spent his time,
He rarely ventured out.
The river of his soul ran dry,
A parched and barren drought.

The picture frames that littered each
Empty shelf in his room,
Were dusty but were as admired
As when buds brightly bloom.

With small sad smiles he gazed on them,
Recalling times before
He knew the pain of awful things
Like death, and loss, and war.