Poezja

Here I sit,
With my grandfather's legs.
He disappeared in the rain of time,
The minutes of his watch
Ticking in my inner ear,
A candle for when it gets dark.
He really was one of us.
But now he is one of them,
Horrors of the green, quiet,
Nightingale cemeteries,
A child's sole on someone's
Name, just a thing, not related.