There he is, tender and old.
His breaths can now still be heard,
persisting in the corner of the eye.
Senses can no longer be defined sly.
There he is, treasured and cold.
He then coexists with reason and pride,
taking close refuge in wounds and doubt.
If only wonderings could cease to shout.
There he is, will he not go?
Stay for the best, pray, not for the worst,
not in a lovely story for the wind to blow.
There is much in life eventually to know.