(c) 2018 Edward York
I watched the old man slowly walk,
Before stopping for a rest.
He struggled to reach the bench ahead,
To end his painful quest.
The cane he used with every step,
Lay resting by his side.
He couldn\'t hide the pains he felt,
Although he really tried.
He looked at me as I approached,
And offered me a seat.
His eyes still faced straight ahead,
Just focused on the street.
As I sat up close it was plain to see,
His leg displayed a scar.
He told me it was a souvenir,
From the time he spent in war.
I told him I\'d like to hear the tale,
If he would care to speak.
So he told me of the horrors faced,
Through a voice that\'s frail and weak.
He told me he had other scars,
And some you couldn\'t see.
I couldn\'t believe the horrors,
That he revealed to me.
He said the dreams come every night,
And still invade his sleep.
The pain so real in his dream,
It always makes him weep.
The old man finally seemed at peace,
After he had his say.
His closed his eyes as if to rest,
Before he slipped away.