13inchesofboyd (![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} 13inchesofboyd) wrote,@ 2008-07-03 13:16:00 |
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death of an old man
he sheathes his passion
and rolls up his philosophies.
the future is depleted, dried up
as yellowed parchment which
dissolves when touched.
he puts his fighting spirit to
bed with a slow lullaby his
mother had once sung.
he crumples photographs of
himself, leaving them under
bright lamps to fade them,
and tucks what he kept from
each love into matchboxes-
runs his fingers over them.
its almost time now, after
all its playing hard-to-catch
time has come to meet him.
he breathes out each candle
with a secret he's protected:
that he never believed in god
and who kissed who under
the bleachers. time arrives.
he sits in his rocking chair,
holding a wooden box with
his only legacy inside:
an empty space.
he sheathes his passion
and rolls up his philosophies.
the future is depleted, dried up
as yellowed parchment which
dissolves when touched.
he puts his fighting spirit to
bed with a slow lullaby his
mother had once sung.
he crumples photographs of
himself, leaving them under
bright lamps to fade them,
and tucks what he kept from
each love into matchboxes-
runs his fingers over them.
its almost time now, after
all its playing hard-to-catch
time has come to meet him.
he breathes out each candle
with a secret he's protected:
that he never believed in god
and who kissed who under
the bleachers. time arrives.
he sits in his rocking chair,
holding a wooden box with
his only legacy inside:
an empty space.
