He had no sense of humor. In fact, he was always glum. His head lived in a castle but his heart dwelled in a slum. In no one did he trust. Others saw diamonds, gold. He saw only glass and rust. His soul had grown too old. He didn't laugh or even smile there was nothing funny. A bee was just a sting. He'd never tasted honey. This man, he lived silently and never smiled or grinned. His heart was filled with slush and ice. His breath the winter wind. One day he felt the sun's heat. on his lips, a smile did slide. a chuckle from his mouth escaped. He laughed and then he died. © Swampetta (SWAMPETTA@aol.com) HOME ~THE WRITERS' CORNER~