Declesis

Left forlorn to raisin in the sun,
His oaken cane supports and
Suppresses his pains.
His wrinkled brow, leathery and tough as hide,
Hides a withered mind.
A doorbell rings, in time
Answering lonesome wants
Which were once held at bay.
Prospect of company fractures his formality,
As choking coughs replace a hearty rasp.
He shrinks back into the home,
Which was never his, alone.
Given by the constancy of time,
Dejected by his own doing.
Who he once was now sits in decay
His fault feigned upon scarlet guile.