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BEGGAR.

The wind blows a cold winters
breeze,
It catches the man in his diseased
of old age lungs,
The icy cool air fills them and is
released in painful long exhales,
The dry throat stutters and
coughs,
Pain releasing into the atmosphere
of clouds and memory’s,
Which engulfed unknowing passersby,
Leaving no trace that they had ever existed.
His icicle like blue hands,
The blood that flowed through their veins,
Now frozen rivers never set to run
again,
One Passerby spares a glance and
deviant remorse for this man,
But then it is gone. Faded into the
closet that is his mind,
Never to reopen again,
This man was not aware he had witnessed
the beggars last breath of life.
And what and icy one it was.

This open post was written 2 years, 4 months ago | V/U/S: 610, 6, 5 | Edit Post | Leave a reply | Report Post

Atmosphere, Winters, Remorse, Old age, leaving, Icicle, Glance, Frozen, closet, Breeze (How Tags Affect Reciprocity)

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