The last old man came past the stand
holding in his ruined hand
some dark poetic flower

I watched him bow and then withdraw
pathetic as the lowly crawl
of sinners to the throne of god
upon the  final hour
 
it seems the old are not the wise;
I saw the wounds within his eyes
in rags, but with a sullen pride
now hardened to an ember

and then the dull parade was past
like shadows into darkness cast
sightless, but with memories
that no one can remember

he was no different from the rest
he tried to make a last request
that no one seemed to understand
and none would help the last old man.