A Lone man stands, on the shore of a faraway land, his companions have past into the void and only he has withstood the passage of time. He stands, A solo silhouette on the horizon. Death creeps up, and he feels it coming closer. But he is ready. He has prepared himself. He gazes out over the water that he's been watching for the past years, and realizes that he is the last one of a dying race.
About this creation
He looks out,
Over the shore,
The land he swore to protect for a thousand years and more,
He is the last.
The last of his kind,
The last to survive.
He feels Death creep,
Yet he excepts it.
As he watches, He see him grow near,
Yet where others would feel fear,
He is tired of waiting,
And prepares himself for the Greatest Journey.
Yes, this was another poem build, being my second.
I'll be making a third for 9-11 soon.
Shot of interior of house-