The perpetual soul

He was old,

older than most, when we first met.

His face was wrinkled,

deep groves splayed all across his face,

pushed deeper and deeper

into flesh by constant laughter;

a daily routine.

His hands were gnarled and scarred.

His was a life of labour, he said.

A labour of love, he added.

The older he got, and the more I knew.

It seemed as if

the more depleted his body got,

in riches his soul grew,

ever expanding.

His fragility was always around,

hanging between us

drifting like an ocean mist,

in and out,

in and out.

He was old,

older than most.

But that was just his body.

Because in the end, a soul like his

was ageless.