Grace
The lines on his face and hands,
hold so much then mere noise in the bus.
His grips are steady and firm,
never a doubt in his precision.
The walking stick must have been
his companion in all his trips.
His veins hiding behind his skin,
tells the labour that he had worked.
The teary eyes beholds so much stories,
that shows no empty vacant of memories,
especialy fond ones with that smile..
What a sight fo me to anticipate.
How good it is to grow old this way,
such grace…
.
.
ps: I wrote it on the way bck home in the bus while observing an old uncle. I wish to dedicate this to all senior citizen. *cheers*
