Old man Jack
secluded
happily
in the wayward back country
tucked away in his haggard old shack
set in ruin
His mind still vibrant
a little cracked
but keen as a whip
thwarts the decay
the atrophy
encompassing him
He sits
in silence basked in solitude
with pen in hand
mortar in the other
builds his peace
writes his soul
to the wind
pens his pain
reigns the ink
sends his joy in prose
to the page
flows his sorrow in verse
whether blessing or curse
until the end
when heart runs dry
the ink subsides
the story
is finished
longer hides
and his old story
is
told
Copyright © 2014
Benjamin Thomas
poetryshack 
Lovely flow here. Jack and the shack are one. 🙂
Thx
It’s sad and yet seems normal…the two depended on each other to live. I like pace of this form of poetry.
Thank yoy
Great verse, Ben! Fits the prompt exceedingly well 🙂
What we make in our moments as the seasons pass, perhaps some will survive, yes perhaps a story, or two might be shared. I’d like to think some of what Jack penned, is still out there somewhere in a dry dust covered corner waiting to be found, just like the house that Jack built is still around. Dreams, and yarns, all I can say, top writing, Benjamin.