An old bent brittle man, <br />soaks up the silence, <br />stands beside his little <br />Eden, hidden inside the <br />womb of the sordid city. <br />watching the summer fire- <br />flies dance in the scented <br />breeze. <br />old over used knees <br />remind him of his position. <br />His face cherry red from <br />the burning leaves, <br />thoughts and fumes <br />rise to the skies in unison. <br />Alone but totally surrounded. <br /> <br />Every summer now, <br />when burning leaves, <br />find my tunnelled senses, <br />I remember his face, <br />home to a thousand thoughts, <br />home to many a lost love. <br />Just him, burning leaves, <br />in his little secret Eden.<br /><br />Not Long Left<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/secret-little-eden/
