I can’t count the wrinkles
that cling to his face
serious, as the weight of 80 years
with barely any left.
Two deep-set, gray eyes
are forgotten even by himself
because the sun doesn’t help the blind
in the judgment of their sins.
Soft spoken
where once the grip was strong
and strength, once in fingers
now shake on fragile arms
Confined to a lack of confidence
and held from freedoms blaze
with time as his warden
and a body as his cage
Once a fighter, father, and a man;
once, strong, tall, and handsome
now with barely anything left
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