(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.
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Author:
lasergraph (
Offline) - Published: January 19th, 2018 12:37
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 29
- User favorite of this poem: Aislinn Wilson.
Offline)
Comments5
aaw , so sad , poor man 🙁 this is a great piece of writing , so moving ...too .
I thank you
This is really moving, well done
Thank you, I appreciate that
Very well written, Lasergraph! Great rhyming too. Kat wrote a poem about old people too today and I am glad yours addresses that subject. We should be more thankful for all the good the elderly did in this world.
The more elderly I get the more appreciative I get
Beautifully written in such simple yet such poignant language
Thank you, I appreciate that
A wonderful write that created emotions within me, so many unseen wounds from people who went to war.
I know several personally, but they don't much like to talk about it.
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