by John P. Kristofco

gaunt, gray,
gullied by the light and dark,
the busses of his every day
that stretched his life so thin
you'd see the skeleton of his soul
netted by the lines around his eyes,
though true and straight,
steady in the wind, unblinking,
strong enough to stand beneath the sun,
standing, still,
when all the days for him to stand
were done

Illya's Honey Literary Journal

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