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Poetry
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| Death is his comfort | |
| By JourneyAtNight | ||||||||
| 08 September 2006 | ||||||||
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Alone he sits Blankly gazing out the window, Appearing almost lifeless, apart from The watery droplets of time that line his eyes. Ninety-nine years of Memory Of life, of love and of losses Swirl around in his mind, like the merciless mist of the sea. He sails through them vacantly, knowing they matter little now. He desolately, despairingly ponders... Where did it all go? He had a fruitful life But now, those beautiful blossoms Have gone, Shriveled away with this cold, unbearable winter. Time has been cruel. The clock on that blank painted wall It ticks away slowly, ruthlessly as Frost huddles, not caring, on this double-glazed barrier. The young women in white smiles, she chats mindlessly. He does not listen; she is not part of his world. She lives - they all live. He only reminisces living. Life Life was miles away. A shred of light cuts the fog; He knows that death, Rest, Is not so far.
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