In a murky puddle of water,
I see an aged man's heart
beating ferociously to be heard.

He sits at a distance
in a chair of wicker
that rocks ever so slightly
to and fro.

Indecision creates
a blanket of moisture and wrinkles
in place of a forehead.
His face so tender;
His eyes agonized.

Smooth hands,
free from abuse of hard labor,
hold a burning cigarette,
its potent stench,
a reminder of a terrible time
that has yet to pass.

I see a man
with no aspirations

His un-chapped lips smile;
Contented with the warm breeze
that moves his hair out of place,
like his current situation.

With everything correlative,
he speaks,
“Good fortune is brought
to those who do good deeds
and punishment,
he ascertains,
to those who are of the obverse.

I have done neither; therefore,
I do not really exist.

I am only an image
in a murky puddle of water
waiting to evaporate
from then sun’s judging heat.”

He sits there alone,
fading away,
grey,
smooth,
and dreading the rain
to hit the dirt
that makes his life
his strife;

it makes his heart beat
all the more ferociously
to be heard.

In an aged man,
I see myself.