Poetry

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Memories old,
Memories new.
There are so many
and yet so few.

There he sits all alone
a six-foot bench is his home.
His most sacred possessions
lie in bags around his feet,
and there's yearning in his eyes
for someone to take a seat.

A lonely old man without a friend
except for those who've been where he's been.
The world around just passes him by
while his stands still. He wonders, “Why?”

One day by him someone sits down
and takes his bags off of the ground.
A friend of a Friend is who he was.
The Friend he had was the Lord of Love.

There he sits alone no more.
His memory smaller than before.
His most sacred possession
lies open in his hand
and there's a yearning in his eyes
to see the Promised Land.

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