He is Dead Then

“He is dead then” breathed the old grey man

“Yes” I sighed and clutched his hand

Willing not to let it go

As if he slept though sleep had passed

Into the last night of his days

In hope he sought this resting place

Now silent, still and pure of face

A life lived well his final thought

Ragged white the walls compress

And my hand slips from his grasp

“It is time” he said and clutched my sleeve

I knew in truth I had to leave

But glanced once more at his sleeping form

And passed my word that said it all

For in truth the man was me