The man with the violin

Sunken eyes, hollow cheeks, greying sagging skin

Wrinkled musty overcoat, twanging violin

He rests upon the crest o’ hill, peaceful to the world,

holds the bow and instrument, bony hands unfurled.

Hunched he sits, awaiting, but now, he reaches for the strings

A melancholy melody and quietly he sings.

Blotchy skin and shaky breath, through weary, wizened eyes

His crinkled face lifts to the sky, surveys the warm sunrise

The last golden ray pierces the the clouds,

He listens, he sighs, he slows,

Shaking hands unlatch the case of the violin he stows

He does not rush, his aching limbs no longer in their prime

Wrinkles like cobwebs shroud his face

For he is the Master of Time