A trench coat wrinkled with age;
rusted buckle, miles sewn to the breast.
Lost loves covered by a thick sleeve.
A roaring dungeon of dark winds;
angry lions scrapping heavens floor.
Deep pocketed hands; fingers clenched
toward unmerciful giants.
Shutters rattle; the song of emptiness.
Branches creak like aged knees; the end
of prayers feel cold.
A wintered steel cold breath licked
his lips; gray is his favorite color.
Roger Singer 