A poem on loss, I'm not sure if it still needs a little work, but for now I'm happy with it.
I hope you like it.
He sat, bereft.
The powerful youth of yesteryear,
the man who’d faced all-comers, without fear;
His shrivelled frame trembled in a chair.
Fingers caressed the picture in his hand.
Monochrome locks on porcelain face,
she had always been his Grace.
Now he sat all alone,
in the house they’d called, home.
Cold walls closed in.
His broken heart,
left their home, bereft.
The fighting spirit;
John Carré Buchanan
16 September 2013