There the holy man sits
Over-hanging shadows casting his eyes
Sunken and in despair
Empty and complacent as the black cap that rests at his feet.
The illustrious debts of shabby undertones
Convulsing against empty wallets and moth eaten clothes.
His wooden staff lays at his side, magic man or royalty as his faiths lets him believe
Crooked as his smile, made old by the sands of time
Twisted as his hands, reaching out in silent pleas of un-wavering prayers.
His mind as wise as his being
And aged as the crumbling mount that towers above him
His beard curled around his resting place, each knot representing a multitude of forgotten secrets whispered to the sea.
The cap stays as empty and sunken as his eyes.
Though his mind fills it with generosity every time he blinks at the sunlight bouncing on the waves, throwing rainbows across his weathered face.
And still he’ll sit, long after the crashing of the waves on the rocks have died to a lullaby, and the gentle kiss of the sea leaves salty residue in the cracks of his wisdom.
And still he’ll look out from his tired eyes, long after the sun-kisses of the day are whispered over by the lull of the waves and the midnight songs of the whales haunt him into sleep.