A man...

There I watched a man, tatter'd and snared,
Like an old wreckage years he bare.
He walked down my street,
looking at ground so empty,
no muscle moved on his face.
And there the old rubble moved upon the path,
with every step a new ache in spine.
How strangeful seems this mountain of time,
As he glides slowly, he could feel gravity drowning heart.
It would seem, all hope has abandoned him,
And no carol for him, echoes in life.
Now he looks upon old watch,
Surely there's less and less time,
But sweet nature gave a blessing upon old life,
Nepenthe runs in veins, as he rejects fact most prime.
But then again, with what has he left,
But to walk upon earth, and not to think of time?
His fires, now all drowned.
His strenght bleaches like old picture in white.
And no faces, but his solitude most prime.
Is it the beat of his rusted heart
that tortures him to breath pain as he walks?
Or is it the fire in him lives in others
And in seed he planted for this hallow ground
But does he really wants to live
And see how this hollow ground another soul eats?
So why does he wake up at morning,
and staggers down the path;
What does he hopes to see?
Or is it that he has words still,
That he could bestow upon beauty,
Like a witness that came to say
"I was there
I was there when the sun did rose,
I was there to feel raindrops upon my sleeve
I was there to witness the birth of another sun
I was there to make this path long."
But he wasn't.
For life is much more than he could see,
Life gives much more than anybody can feel.
And our every look that bounces of her or him,
stays entrapped in this circle we walk and see.
Someone else drives these wheels
To turn and tracks on ground to leave.