On Its Own

The old man
Sat
In that chair
For what seemed
Like an endless
Hour

Despite
How our world
Did ignore him
When his eyes
Had been closed
All along

In protest
Of death
Where he waited
Unafraid
Each silence
Was something

Like the fearful
Wish
He’d been dreaming
Held a blankness
Quiet
And dark

Missing
Such threat
Of existence
Where time
Wouldn’t answer
His question

Even
As breath
Had escaped him
Alone
On that seat
Without help

Undignified
While he had
Passed
With the hands
Of his family
Absent

But the touch
Of a stranger
Willing
Whose empathy
Offered some
Peace

Like God
Extending
His grace
At the bridge
Which just
Doesn’t matter

If fallen
Long before
Crossing
And assuming
Faith
Is a debt

For souls
Unwilling
To chance
What fate
Has always
Been written

Facing
Doom as a
Constant
Rather
Than blaming
Their doubt

Reminding us
Heroes
Are weak
And fighters
False
As resistance

But the blessed
Who age
In acceptance
Of mortality
Triumph
With loss –

That gentleman
Hopeful
Yet gone
Felt sure
His rest
Was redeeming

Beyond
This moment
Elusive
Like a heaven
Distant
But real

So the lesson
Learned
Is endure
Among
All our transient
Efforts

As believing
Our reason
For being
Is the cause
Which acts
On its own.

– J. Pigno

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