This is a poem I've been working on for a year or more - started when caught up in a measure of depression and reflecting on how I might have ended up, had it not been for divine intervention.
He was an elderly man, clothed in desolation,
a gray man fading into the stoop on which he reclined,
as if he were already turning to dust, disintegrating.
He coughed, and coughed again the rasp of an ailing
man, a rattle vibrating from the fathoms within,
and he fumbled for his pack of cigarettes
as if to reaffirm his intention of dying should his
bottle of cheap wine not propel him into oblivion. He
was muttering, muttering secrets to himself, or of himself,
or perhaps proverbs to show someone, anyone,
how enlightened he could be there on the gray stoop
as dust and the remainder of his life swirled about him.