That Singh,
with a grey beard and moustache
has a grey that follows him
like a quiet mist
Not the grey of sorrow
but of ash that never cooled
from fires no one saw
of silent storms he endured
He stretches himself thin
whilst tiptoeing expectations and wants
as greys settle on him
he folds into molds never his own
His eyes reveal what his shoulders conceal
a tired child who's adamant about being strong
a boy who's scared at being seen as less than a hero
a man isolated by his choice of loneliness
His arms are strong
veiny and hard
arms that carried so many lives
except his lover
My heart aches for that grey Singh
for when love reaches for him
he moves awkwardly
fear creeps on him
caging him from being held
That Singh
that grey Singh
tugs my soul
grey seems to love him so
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