The spirit is dead, but not the flesh

Worn down, down;
Old man.
Not expect hope to create
No hope she hesitate
And think
Before speaking.

Now the light softly dims
You beauty, repressed;
Like ancient hymns
Thought is musty, rusty
As the spirit sinks, not swims.

Worn inside out;
Poor man.
No time for you to be
You, no rest, no chance to flee
To think
Before you die.

We were the ones that got away
But you;
Old man had no choice but to stay
Spirit flapping so much caught fish
Never able to have a say.

Your spirit rests though, in daughters and sons
Long after your flesh will have gone.