his face was tempered with hard lines
and eyes that saw war of all sorts,
the kind of passion
that was bred into you.
the weary will
that never stopped
even with begging and
pleading from the body.
—you know those souls,
the one’s whose bones
seem to be made of nothing
but dust of the earth.
and misplaced timing,
a cold shoulder and shudder
that seem to give us hope.
all depth is not beautiful,
but depth is useful.
even hard fought wisdom,
and lessons we all learn
until we take our last breath.
