“loneliness of the few friended old man.”

He feeds the birds on the bench alone.
He walks slowly crumbling walks back to homes he had once known.
He lumbers into his bed and lays there to think.
‘oh what has become of me.
I’m alone as can be.
I feel only the family who loves me.
Yet the few friends to count.
Three fingers maybe four.
What’s life like for this poor policed sap.
Only a fellow man’s worry sit within his haired skull.
Hatred leaks from deep within his soul.
His eyes shallow and broken.
Red and dry.
Screaming to his bedroom roof.
Finally sleep enters the mist.
A haze of dreams.
Old friends and fond times.
He awakes just in time before the alarm.
What’s there to do today.
He smiles in charm.
What’s there to do today.
Picking up his weak broken old man arms.
Looking out the window.
Seeing only tears splatter on his sleeve.
Looking out the window.
He sees nothing…
A world of the lonely.
A world of the hurt.
He steps up shaves.
Walks out to sit on the bench another day….

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