the weathered man,
sits on the bench, facing
more sun,
unafraid of dying, living
haven taken that fear away.
his mapped face neither scowled
or bitter, just soft
in ravines of resignation.
which seems fine, as he moves
his lips
to move his teeth
to allow a smile
to crease open.
there is no end to life,
you hope, for him,
and you, just new beginnings,
as one turns off this light.
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