Everwind
He sits there, idly in his rocking chair. It is a picture of cliche. His lips, battered and dry, clack together in an attempt to regain lost moisture, and his eyes droop with a sunken exhaustion.
The little boy within captures each movement from his tired eyes. His hands grasp, and carve the wonders of the world.
The age of his body does not reflect his spirit.
The cage of time cannot contain his youth.