When You See Faces

I walk past a bench where sits a man,
His face upon which troubles ran
Some years ago, now, I presume,
And hard to be, now, to exhume.
But rivulettes they make in sweat,
E’en in the cold they steam and let
A past not known to be by men
Of passing eye nor askance yen.

I imagine he has tales to tell,
Of things one couldn’t even sell,
If thawed from frozen tongue it could
be vented, and, without, it would
Grab passers-by, and bleed their ears
Of long-lost tempts from yonder years.
And learned men would burst to tears
At resolution of their fears
Made solid by this lonesome man
By which there used their troubles ran.

Advertisements

No.

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s