Mellow drums and a sullen guitar.
These are the sounds of his footsteps.
Sun-speckled skin like an old cigar
He’s lived one life and is living another
Faded are those that he once knew
His lasting figure seen traveling alone
He has no one to hold or to say adieu
Every moment is only his own
There’s an existence in his gaze
A small, new flame in the dying fire
Time is leading him to his grave
Yet his spirit has never felt higher
Photograph by Luigi MoranteHire An Editor