Ponderous and old before his time has touched him,
reading out the lines that pass unseen
before his eyes
in hues of gray and earthen stone.
He sits alone so often,
like the treasures never found
beneath the vast and raging seas.
Recovery’s an omen long forgotten,
and now is not attempted,
by the once quite strong
and able sons of man.
We kneel and pray among the dying grass of fall,
our ears awaiting echoed laughter from a distant past.
With all the scathing we do now, we never touched
the dream that sits, with many men we know,
just there, beyond our grasp.
And soon the faded shots of black and white
will be but failing memories
for faithless crowds who knew his faults.
And watching from a grandstand we did not create,
we’ll stay there just the same.
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