The Old Man

The Old Man

 

His face shadowed over like a cloud, full of rain,
His mouth was curved, an object of disdain.
He lay there cold as morning frost
His soul, his mind forever lost.
He lay as if though sleeping, upon the old armchair,
His clothes for sleep upon the bed, laid out with gentle care.
His face was free from hardness, in death the old man did smile,
With the underlying happiness that he’d be there for a while.
A breeze leapt up and through the door, rendering the bedroom cold,
It brushed the face of the silent man and took a gripping hold.
‘Twas five days later one called by, and what they saw they’ve sworn,
The wind had been harsh and without care his face was smooth and worn.
A village crowd astounded, treaded through the dilapitated hallway.
But the old mans body had vanished, they knew not what to say.
The crowd turned and left, not one said a word,
The wind it cackled and howled like a ghost,a ghost that no one heard.

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