The old man whittled a point
on a stick he found nearby.
Worry had been a lifelong companion
and now he was wondering why.
Time seemed to have disappeared
in a vacuum of good intentions.
Now old, arthritic, alone, and silenced,
memories only, sustain his sharp intuition.
His family seldom visit
as often as they use to.
He fondly rearranges their photos,
uncertain what else to do.
He remembers when, where, and why -
his life was so full of activity.
The good, bad, and useless effort,
years of longing for simplicity.
He sits and stares in silence
when a cool breeze graces his face.
He smiles without regret, at peace
breathes his last, and ends this race.
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Comments about this poem (Old Man by Vaughn Wood )
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