Sitting in the middle of that bench atop his meager island,
Watching the tranquil waters, gazing deeper than the vision could pierce,
His quiescent eyes finding meaning, or someone, or something,
But he was all alone, alone on his island of solitude, waiting,
Immovable air, and numb water stood there swathing his silence,
Silent enough to hear his own memories, to hear his palsied heart.
Afraid of his own shadows, he counted his memories,
As yet, his embers flickered, his disquiet soul withered,
Motionless, colorless, he waited for his decree to be told,
Watching a rowboat enraging, he opened his mouth, whispered,
Insatiate figures hurdling, reaching out to grasp his embrace,
For his wait was over, his borrowed time had come to an end.
