Ticking of his clock

A voice from above

A place where he never knows

Toiling through a long spell

In which he experienced a lot of hardship

His weathered, frail hands

Deep furrows etched on the forehead

Emaciated, jelly legs failing to rise

Wobbly steps attesting to his infirmity

The worn-out, withered look of his soul

Sapped by a string of health issues

Making him a walking skeleton

A dull hoary crown

Is the only precious award that he obtains

Though being not one of the Great of this world

I am utterly proud of his lifetime sacrifice for my well-being

Before the ticking of his clock ends