The Old Forlorn

There was a forlorn old man,
Who lived in dirty, big piece of can.
He owned nothing, but his old socks,
And his skillful painting knacks.

One day, he was starving to death,
He looked down and just heaved deep breaths,
He put his hat on and departed,
Looking for some place where he’ll be cared.

But cruelty beyond doubt, the world proved,
As the old man, begged for food.
They stomped and stormed off,
Leaving him, shaking by the cold.

He walked out and found a corner in the street,
There he sat, feeling his heart beat.
After a while, his stomach growled.
Hunger had reached her brain, no doubt.

He stood up again and ambled,
While stumbling, he found a piece of paper, crumpled.
He opened it and delight etched across his face,
It was an unfinished drawing, just starting the phase.

He hurried back home, trembling.
Holding the drawing, smiling.
He got his old pencil and continued,
As he scratched the drawing’s prelude.

After finishing it, he smiled,
He smoothed the paper, and glide.
In a particular crowded intersection,
With a sign “For Sale”, he raised the drawing on.

The people smirked and laughed,
But still, his face stood up.
One gentleman came,
He said the drawing was lame.

But the old man could see,
That they still haven’t seen the art clearly,
He stretched the slightly wrinkled paper,
And held it high again, ignoring the jeerers.

Hours passed, he was hopeless,
Until beautiful mistress,
Appeared with such kind face,
And asked how much will it cost.

The old man said nothing,
He was just standing there, until morning.
He wasn’t moving a muscle,
Everybody stood there, bedazzled.

They could see from the old man’s eyes,
That he never –ever- been such cowardice.
The people gathered around the wonder,
Paid their respects for the old man, the brave and the goner.