The old man in the fraying, faded coat
stumped down the old, forgotten, beaten path,
his feet like leaves, shuffling in the wind
slowly sliding through seasons come and gone,
sliding through time and change now become one
with a whisper, the sigh that filled his heart.
Not a sigh of loss, or regret, or fear.
Not a sigh of weariness from the years
that he’d spent on the beaten, weathered path.
But a sigh that wavered low and heavy,
welling up from a hope he’d never cared,
never dared to acknowledge – a small hope.
A hope that mirrored all those haunting lights,
those ghosts that gleamed in darkened, taunting night
that even now rose above that old man’s head.
A hope that flared so powerfully for one
false moment, leaving a seared memory
to ache with remembrance – or illusion.
A hope that lived, though often beaten down.
A sigh that breathed all down that beaten path.
A finger touched the old man’s callused palm,
yet still he walked, his eyes trained on the path.
How long since he had started on that trail?
How long before a man’s head drains to grey?
How long before time beat a weathered path
upon his brow, to match that underfoot?
The finger that had pressed against his palm
Touched once again, became a gentle hand.
And as he raised his eyes from off the path
he saw her truth, his life within her eyes.
The old man shook, his sigh become a gasp,
his hope, long held, became no more a hope.
