A Quite Monk

With heavy heart, held in hand, a quiet monk, counts the sand, of seconds past, in early hour, of past love, which turned to sour. Candlelight, on walls display, an elderman in disarray on the walls of this small, abbey, a silhouette no longer happy. A long life lived, wasted away, everyday to sit and pray, hoping there may be some way, to get his heart to obey. He lifts ink stained hands to his face, to cover up his poor dismay, tiredly he sits and waits, for the coming of suns light, as his thoughts attack at night. Troubled by his days in youth, can no longer hold is couth, if only he no longer cared, for this woman, young and fair, for his lifes been stuck in prayer. Robes of plain design, so dark in color, it does not shine, he slips them off, all but bare the monk whose, no longer scared, sets about to find his love, born anew, sent from above.