Candle burning slowly
He sits and writes of his life
at sea to the sounds of
an old melody from his landless
past playing on a beaten old victrola

The grizzled lines on his face
do all his talking to those who
know him best

His voice, raspy from years of
sea salt and tobacco, mutters
to himself cautiously about
the time of night

He dips the pen once more
into the black ink whose remanants
will soon become all that is left
of this proud old man

He scribbles on the parchment about his
son and how he left home so young
only to return later in a box
He did what needed to be done for freedom

The light flickers from a draft
whose repairs have been put off
for many seasons in his rickety old shanty
The wind blows cold this night

Pride, he writes, is the one thing
that time can never take away

His stout figure stands and gazes
through the window at the splashing
on the rocks below
It's natural beauty still stirs
a longing men half his age would
have let lay dormant years ago

He goes to bed with a smile
and a gentle knowing
He leaves the candle to let
the last piece of the wick burn out forever

06/27/2002

Posted on 06/27/2002
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