Ages Poem by Michaelpoetry Ryan

His hair was tangled, his clothes a mess;
his life was unfolding nonetheless.
His face was weathered, unshaven and tired,
but in his eyes, there burned a fire
that glowed, as flowed from cracked and bitten lips
a prose as elegant as a little girl's kiss.
He spoke of ages long since past
when princes lived in houses of glass
and parties given to those deserving
were attended and mended like petticoats twirling
to music played by minstrel bands
as lords in waiting took ladies by hand.
He spoke of simpler pleasures too;
of quiet moments that seemed too few
to ladies in waiting and lords at their sides.
And then he spoke of you. And he cried.