Wrinkled man in a coffee house, sipping coffee on his own. 

People chatter all around; still he feels all alone. 

Men have died of illness since, war had taken many friends. 

Does he sit and reminisce, or sip to block out history's howl?

I do not know if there's turmoil, thinking things he should have said. 

Perhaps he a had a lovely wife, who is now passed and dead.

His kids are spread across the lands, so now it's only he. 

Does he hold words within his heart which he hopes to heaven sing?

A yowl goes forth in the form of tears, one which only hearts can hear.