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Among many, he sits, frail fingers moving constantly, reaching
For the skeins of past dreams. He lifts his face, searching
For beams of sunshine, a passing smile, a benison
To one old man, of many, starving for attention.

Imprisoned in a silent world, eyes bright, mind razor-sharp,
He wishes for a human touch, connection, warmth,
Recognition of his worth. He looks at those around him,
Seeking the same, all captured in a time warp.

Time has aged the body, youth fled, for some, minds lost
In the realms of bygone days, where reality has blurred.
They do not ask for so much, in the grander scheme of life,
Just acknowledgement of their humanity, that they exist.

Starving for attention, living day to day, hope always alive
That they will be valued. Let somebody call them by their name,
Somebody truly see them. Not as old, defeated folk,
But vibrant, living, giving people who, for a little comfort, strive.

Learn more about this author, Dolores Moore.
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