An old bent brittle man,
soaks up the silence,
stands beside his little
Eden, hidden inside the
womb of the sordid city.
watching the summer fire-
flies dance in the scented
breeze.
old over used knees
remind him of his position.
His face cherry red from
the burning leaves,
thoughts and fumes
rise to the skies in unison.
Alone but totally surrounded.
Every summer now,
when burning leaves,
find my tunnelled senses,
I remember his face,
home to a thousand thoughts,
home to many a lost love.
Just him, burning leaves,
in his little secret Eden.
Not Long Left
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/secret-little-eden/
