Sitting on park bench, watching the people
Watching the world pass behind pitch black shades
His hair grey and his face wracked by decades
He sits so still, not moving a muscle
He twirls the top of a cane in his hand
Says no words – as silent as a dead star
And boots that look like they’ve been travelling far
Seems unconcerned with what time may demand
Dressed entirely in blackest of leathers
Is he waiting for someone to walk by?
Somehow it maybe best not to ask why
Says no words for he’s the one who measures
Watching the people pass, he sits and waits
For its he himself that decides the fates
5th August 2013
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