Hunched over, he was.
His wrinkled skin reflecting no light.
His great limbs swing with only a rhythm that he could understan.
How many years had he seen?
Fifty?
Nintey?
He did not know, nor did it matter now.
Standing alone, wind pushing at him with seductive tugs.
Children giggling around him, unseeing.
Bumping into him, appologies missing.
He only stands there, silent,
Weeping,
As he has always done, without complaint.
Until the blade, shivering, and shining,
Seeks to strike him down.
He will not struggle, will not swing his great limbs,
Will not fight,
As
He
Falls.
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SamIAm

Line 8 contridicts itself. Sorry. (SamIAm)
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maybe "standing alone the wind tugs at him seductively" ?... why did he always stand there?... enjoyed this SamIAm....alice
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seems draining (from a reader's standpoint)
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Don't think of him as human. Maybe.....a tree? I use to work at an "old folk's home" and allot of those people were ignored, thought beautiful in their young age, and then cut down when they out-grew their usefulness. (SamIAm)