The Lament of Days Gone By

It must be said of sorrow that the sufferer cares not of tomorrow,
For Life is lived on the edge so the numb soul can feel again;
Tears flow within four walls and agony is undocumented,
But the weeping soul knows that is is wounded;
In the throes of torment dreams of love seem so distant;
Lovers come and go like the changing of the seasons.
The anxious heart longs for warmth when winter approaches
but the chill of cold loneliness pervades.
The once resoluteness of their being fades …
In weeping plea they lament and say,
Who will love us to the end of our days?
Gray hair sets in and the nails are brittle and hardened;
With wrinkled faces and cloudy eyes near blindness
The old reflect on their lives in quiet lament and great sadness,
Stretching forth frail hands under dim lamplight
As if reaching for a piece of the past to be rewritten; 
Their utterances incoherent, mumbling prior words spoken
Attempting to bring back some semblance of living, 
Because for so long they have been heartbroken
With souls exposed to the cold and hearts frozen .
Old photos over worn fireplaces resurrect fond memories of the past
And in that precious moment the aged get up and start to dance.
Throwing aside pride, they cry for love lost and for love never pursued;
More precious than diamonds now are the memories of their youth.
Though near blindness, in the mind they see clearly,
For even in grayness and frailty they glow in their beauty.
Years of torment and agony causes the body to age rapidly,
But they have survived many brutal winters untold;
They whisper to themselves laughingly, 
Though I am old, I have breath yet within me;
Love is still within reach and not just a memory.

Eternal Strings

An old blind man sways as if in a trance as he plays the strings of the harpsichord. His skeletal frame like a thin pine tree in hurricane winds. Strands of thin grey hair swing from side to side; his frail hands show large discolored veins and expose protruding bone against thin skin. The iris and pupils of his eyes are cloudy white. His eyes transfixed. He plays the song of a story only he knows. The strings of the harpsichord haunt his memories and recall the days of sorrow and a love he once knew. He cannot cry because there are no tears left to be given. His torment are his memories; still he plays beautifully.  The ghostly eyes of the dark crow watch from the shadows.