Portrait

Scribbling fruitless lines over parchment
With a halting pen;
The ink smudges and surges,
Forming a picture.
Thick framed glasses hiding jewel-like eyes
That held a world of knowledge.
An ear that, despite its need for hearing-aid
Truly listened to my words.
A voice, turned gravelly and feeble
That still rang with conviction during a debate.
Veined hands, aching, shaking from overuse,
Writing the story of life.
Feet encased in leather sandals, walking-stick in hand
As you walked in the garden, inspecting its growth.
A soul weakened with time, vulnerable, confused,
But still stronger than our half-broken minds.
My evening-star, my guiding-light:
Fruitless scribbles try to repaint, as I wallow in directionless night.