Godspeed

A poem about my grandfather

Early morn' her door whined

open. Content to see her rest,

he strode off to grab the black .45

and one decrepit lawn chair.

Out across the pasture marched the man.

Still too young to die

though he did not look it.

The malignancy flushed from his veins;

a bleeding, seeping hole left in place.

But now, the sun was rising

and with it,

painless rest at last.

Reviews

[Resa]

Sad, painful, yet peaceful.
Nice work:)