Those endless tales knitted by time

Remain to drown in the ocean.

These tales never reach others.

The gurgling of tapwater continues

as the postman starts his morning with his same worn bag

full of new envelopes

of sorrow, pain, joy, and delight.

This postman, too, has his own words

at the end of the day

that remain floating in the thick air

of his dimly-lit cottage.

None comes to him

to hear his words,

none knows the bruises

behind that smile.

All these years, their words were heard;

the rustling of leaves in the wind, 

the moving of an old scooter,

as the chaos came nearer.

And when he returned in the evening

with that golden glow in his smile,

time wasn't there to recite his tales.

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A/N: But I believe there's enough time to get him and his tales a quick vote, isn't there?