His Face...
Once,
his face,
was clean and
clear
of imperfections
and pain.
Before,
you could
run your fingers
down
his cheek
without touching
one wrinkle,
one scar.
His eyes
were
dark
and flaired
with a light
only possesed
by the young.
Now
his eyes are
milky,
cloudy,
like snow
is bottled up
in his soul.
His body
was strong,
built,
his skin soft,
silky smooth
and tan.
Crippled,
pale,
his body
tries to gain
something too lost
held down
by gravity
too strong for the man.
But the voice,
such a
voice
that once spout
a young man's
nonsense,
naive litany...
Now speaks softly
of times,
of hurts,
of happiness,
of peace,
of war...
and of knowing,
so much
Knowing...
That no artist
can capture it
in the stroke
of a brush...
That no shrink
can capture it
in a single
conversation...
That no poet
can capture
with her pen...
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