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The Old Man

The old man

I see an old man,
From a window.
He is cold and alone, only faint memories light his fading eyes,
Dignity, held in years beyond my young world,
brings reason to his still questing soul.
He was me,
Will I, be him?
Carefully and with meditating reason he jangles change in his pocket,
another half-glass of forgetting,
as knowing eyes watch knowing feet,
he settles alone again.
Broken by wisdom,
Bent by this beautiful life of suffering, he watches time catch us up
and smiles a happy smile
and I am shamed, humbled,
by the truth of time.

© PG Allen
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