He Waits For His Day.

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He waits for his day,
Or night if it shall be,
When he joins his friends
In the afterlife that maybe.
Today, another friend abandoned him.
Tonight, he shall weep alone.
Tomorrow, he shall mourn no more,
For he shall learn again to live alone.
To loss, his nerves seem immune.
Weathered eyes and a body frail.
Sickness, victories, life he endured,
But one day, Death shall prevail.
His stoic manner, as ever, lies.
But not when his mother, wife, sister died.
Still, alone he defies Death in silence.
But not when his father, brother, son all died.
His eyes smile briefly only,
When he holds his grand or great-grandchild,
And joy explodes in those dim grey eyes.
At night comes the sadness he exiled.
In the cold of the night,
Night’s stillness, sleep stays away.
And memory unsheathes its daggers,
And the banshee of Age keeps Hope at bay.
The voices echo and sing him to sleep.
The faces greet and frolic in dreams.
Past is Present, and Present is Past, soon.
He sighs as every morning is not a dream.
He cries for his beloveds in loneliness.
The streams are dry, still, Life holds sway.
In the dreary day, and weary in the night
He waits for his day.

I wrote this for my grandfather when his sister died.

Didn’t have the heart show him, though.

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