Pigeon stained benches
Feeding stainers in old straw hats
Withholding ancient thoughts
And why not at war are their skin sacks
It’s nearing an eventual end
Fogged eyes and cataracts
Shield them from clear pretence
Trembling wrinkled hands
Seeding pigeons with natures shakes
Just another memory together
One of many millions at stake
Seventy years and still a flicker
Flames that won’t be tamed
In those old barn lantern eyes
I watch sadly the passerby’s
Cloaking any acknowledgement
Old stories old lovers tell
I know because they’re my grandparents
Both Olympians of gold they once held
A record never to be spoken
Much like the bond that can’t bend their love
A song that sings of their lineage line
A verse paints each deep line with grace
But they are passed because their youth has died
The young see winter and pass on by
Snow valleys blaze in their old fires
In play a red robin flirts with their sun
Singing crisp clean songs knowing
Their winter has finally come
The robin wing flaps good-bye to time
Stories will die in days
But before thy kingdom come
These old skin sacks
Are among the ones
Who caught the gold!
Then caught their sun!
The Tic and Tock of clocks
Always warring
The tic took her
The tock took him
Winter once again
Can finally begin
