Ageing

He played
With
Grey strands
Or perhaps
Silver,
Running astray,
There were smiles
On that face once,
Warm
And contagious,
But the
Winters of wisdom
Had left behind
Souvenirs of wrinkles,
The passionate kisses,
Still lingering
On that withered papery parchment,
The stories,
Unfinished, Unended,
Hanging,
Words draped in silvery voice,
Poised artistically,
Willing embraces,
Spirited summers,
Exuberant nuisances,
All are here,
Fresh, alive,
He can't shake them off.
Even though she's drifted,
Into the sundown.
He too is a couple of
Shallow breaths now
That
Can't keep him here.
Split-second
And
He'll already be a painting on the wall.

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