His feet are slow, dead and tired
The smile sits heavy, almost gone.
Years of being an emotional punching bag,
Now shows finally on his frail bones.

His beard, white with the emptiness
Of broken hopes and unkept promises.
His walking stick is thin and frail
Hammered by years of false accusations.

He can't speak, he can't clarify.
Not even one receptive ear has been born.
The lips are sealed in a silent prayer
For the best, for everyone who hurt him.

There has to be an escape, a route
At the end of which lies final freedom.
Let him not be a football for others,
Let him care, at last, about himself.