Les Poèmes №3 — The Old Gray Man

A short prose on staring the death of love in the eyes.

“Old Man” Anonymous Artist in the Style of Rembrandt (Common License)

The Old Gray Man

I, an old gray man, have lost a dear and treasured friend.
She failed me, but who can blame?

She, the one named Éros, has grown dim before my failing eyes,
Her form void, her delicate countenance lost.

Behold my crooked hands and clumsy feet,
My bones are brittle, my strength has withered.
Oh, to once more embrace her youthful desires afresh.

Wistful, my heart beats tired,
Like the unrelenting sea casting its whites against a broken shore,
Wearing my rough edges smooth,
Crushing me into the fine sands of forgotten time.

I, an old gray man who grows dimmer with each breath, have lost her.
My Éros no longer calls for me,
But instead, another more vibrant than I.

Who can blame? I am but an old gray man.