The brisk morning breeze
crept through the cracked window,
but found the abode empty.
The old man, alas,
was not home.
Wherer was he?
The now curious breeze,
shuffled through his shrits
like a deck of cards.
His bed was made up,
his breakfast on the table,
but where was the old man?
He was at sea
in his fishing boat,
gone for the day.
The cold morning
drew mist from the ocean,
salty-smelling and chilly.
However, the old mans room,
was cozy and warm,
like a mothers pouch.
Then, the wind grew stronger,
and the slight breeze
became a rushing river.
Desperate for distruction,
ut disorganized his framed photos,
and ruffled the cloth by the door.
Starving for more,
it raged on
through the mans things.
Then, as suddenly
as it had come,
the strom left.
Leaving the mans house
quiet, still, calm,
but lonely.
The empty room yearned for company,
but would have to wait
untill the man showed.
the poor place waited,
and waited still.
Even through the beuising darkness of the night...
but the man never came.
