I am an old man

I am an old man.
With blisters on my hands and a heavy heart.
I have lived hundreds of lives
in different cities
through different souls.

I am an old man.
I have been beaten down,
trash talked, 
homeless, with nowhere to go.
I have been raw.
I have been full of energy,
I have been depressed down to the very depths.
I am tired.
I am weary.
I am you,
and I am me.

I am an old man
not quite thirty,
I have seen men crumble and fall,
yet rise again.

They remind me to keep on.
To stay the course when others wouldn't.
When others couldn't.
When others could only lay down,
and wallow in this dreadful misery of existence.

I am an old man. 
I am a child,
and I am geriatric. 
My hands ache from labor,
my mind; from toil.
My heart from love.
Love withheld,
and love that has been given,
then taken back.
My cheeks ache from laughter,
my feet, from running.
Away from problems,
and fleeing to an ever-farther oasis.

I am an old man.
with little peace,
and no solitude,
but here I sit.
On a couch,
in the rain.
My mind running the course,
that remains unfinished.
Unsatisfied,
leaving me with a sense of emptiness. 

I am an old man. 
With cardigans and slippers,
Laugh lines,
and bones that cry.

I am an old man,
and yet I wait.
For these bones to cry louder, 
and deeper.
For the wrinkles to lengthen,
to a wider, more pronounced smile.
I wait for the love that I crave,
for the peace of solitude.
For the unknown,
for the 'someday's'. 
How I crave them.

For, I am an old man.
Weary with heavy stories,
and grace that comes with the promise of every sunrise.


-T. Christian Scharf