He folded like a sheet on the line,
hanging limp and faded
to a sickly whitish color,
ragged corners fraying further
through another fit of coughs.
Threads, battered by age and wind and abuse,
unwind and drift away,
sand in a cloth hourglass
draped about his form.  

What a mess of
flesh and cheap cloth,
unraveling into ruin.

What a waste of a good man.