The old man trudges wearily, sullenly
To his usual bench,
On the outskirts of town, cold in it’s isolation.

The bottle in his ragged pocket is half empty
And isn’t long for this world.

Through permanent tears, his red eyes stare
Out at a grey world.

He is not old, of course,
But his energy is gone, drained by sadness,
His spirit has left him, now a captive of solitude.

Briefly he remembers another life,
One of bright orange passion, of love even.

Pausing for only a moment’s regret,
He turns back to his bottle,
And to his grey world.