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Without tenses

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January 12, 2014

I once saw an old man whose fingers and limbs were twisted and bent

His clothes were wrinkled, smudged, and rent

When I gazed into his eye, I saw pain and fear

From one corner dropped a salty tear

I turned my head not wanting to see

Wanting nothing but to flee

But like ice my feet stood still

Of my senses, I could not feel

Into his eyes, I looked again

This time, I truly saw it then

I saw what I had always known

That my past was now my own

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08:34 AM Jan 12 2014



Just playing with words.  I have never thought of myself as a writer--not a poetic one anyway.  I love reading poems from others--their words always seem to be able to draw a rhythmic image of me.