Old Man

I want to see what you see, old man.
A white like milk through frosted glass.
Where does God lead you?

There’s no fear in your eyes,
But resignation.
Not despair,
But wounded sadness.

You were born wounded, old man.
You set foot into the wound, lightly over vapor,
With your walking stick,
Searching tops of mountains
For your healer.

Old Man
Old Man

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