Men with few confidants.
- Men with few confidants.
He was a being reticent, one of somber attitude,
obligated to self alone, a wanderer without kin.
Company lacked appeal more valued, solitude,
he lived as a drifter, residencies, seldom to begin.
Odd, as life unfolds, how ways cross many times,
it had so often happened, I felt, I knew him well.
Years saw meetings in a dozen different climes,
our wanderings frequent, yet difficult to foretell.
I suppose in a sense, I was little different from he,
beset with that wanderlust, which erodes the soul.
Both of that brotherhood, seeking what cannot be,
men, with few confidants, introversion, to control.
Through years, bonding grew, from mutual respect,
not friendship or reliance, more a tolerance of sorts.
The book of life briefly tabled, as one might expect,
on occasion brokered comment on tolls fate extorts.
Age overtakes brashness, the insensitivity of youth,
and wanderers, are forced to settle, toward the end.
Outlook and nature mellow, in acceptance of truth,
views long held seem crass, now difficult to defend.
I stand now by his graveside contemplate my lot,
men, with few confidants, a detached role assume.
Those who cherish solitude die lonely, like as not,
yet have the effrontery, a better ending to presume.
A rudimentary epitaph, could mark our aftermath.
"Truth, dictates rolling stones, gather up no moss
Denied them, any polish, by vagaries of their path,
fallen stones lie forever, as pebbles, devoid of gloss."
©. Copyright: Bernard de Silva Dec. 29, 08.