The Old Man Near The Lamp Poem by sabitha geethall

In my brisk morning walks
I see him everyday
The old man sitting near the street lamp
Alone in a faceless crowd.

His adamant face
Bore the shadows
Carved by the years
That silently vanquished him.

Embers of a blissful youth
Gleamed in those grey eyes
Where loneliness and despair
Glanced in between.

An amity never sprang up
Except hurried gazes, curt nods
With relief to each other
We remained absolute strangers.

I was afraid of him
The same way he was of me..
B'z when we looked each other,
What mirrored back was strange.
We knew perfectly, that
I was his' past'!
And he my 'future'...