The Man who sits on the bench

The Man who sits on the bench

Every day he eats a sandwich, sitting on a bench by the sea.

He always seems deep in thought, he never notices me.

I wonder where his thoughts are, he never smiles or nods.

The tide rolls in, the tide rolls out, yet he remains the same,

A figure lost in silence, trapped inside his name.

The wind tugs at his coat, but he does not feel its bite,

His world is locked away, beyond the reach of light.

Perhaps he waits for someone who never will appear,

maybe shadow from the past, a voice he longs to hear.

Or maybe time has hollowed him, carved him out and gone,

Leaving just the echoes of the life he once stood on.

His hands, they shake a little as he folds the empty bag,

A ritual unbroken, a weight he still must drag.

Does he taste the bread he eats, or only memory’s crust?

Is it hunger that still drives him, or duty, grief, or dust?

The world moves past in color, yet he remains in grey,

A man whose heart still lingers in a time that slipped away.

And though I watch him daily, a stranger set apart,

I fear I see his future, sitting there dying in the dark