thin soup of souls

his leather face worn thin by the years
is tanned and striking as it catches
the approaching dawn
his threadbare fingers nimble still
weave the moment into the tapestries of his mind
hung in cold vacant halls
each priceless memory dust laden
and faded

thouse around him collapse the fortress of night
and tend to the camps low resolution cook fires
but the true furnace is her eyes as
she unfolds the plots and treasons found
sketched like livid tales in the beaten earth
of the summer meadow
a mesmerizing connection only found under
moonlights saving grace
she weeps in the morning light for what she
has never had and lost

he favours the game leg
while as a horde we break slowly from cover
and while two of the girls rise and fall
of the fortunes of absent rivals
their chatter echoes along the concrete
but are pale after all in springs embracing sun
where all things old feel like they will be new again
where there is hope in the very air you breath

he staggers to the daily mission
where the thin soup and weak bread are the message
but it is for the known face of it
it is for the familiar grace of it
the girls chatter is cold in nature
but it is warm to be companion to
better the bitter hand
than the empty one
he rests his game leg and
wonders how he travelled so far without