Of the many things he holds dear,
That are kept safe and warm to his chest,
He can count on one calloused hand.
They dwindled, disappeared year by year.
Piece by piece his puzzle fell apart,
Leaving a scratched, barren board,
Moves made and strategies played,
For the things closest to his heart.
She was a wondrous dream made real,
An angel and a demon all his own,
Unaware of his capacity for love,
A magic ability only she could reveal.
Beautiful memories within his head linger,
He remembers with glazed, wet eyes,
As they battle against time’s ugly erosion,
And he counts to one on that calloused finger.