The Old Man

Some blood and some flesh, about length five feet,

there on top of, his gray cotton sheet.

Silence in his room, save noise from the fan,

staring blindly, lay the old man.

Waiting on the table, a glass half filled, 

a broken whisky bottle, few drops spilled, 

"This is not it, this wasn't the plan", 

denying blatantly, lay the old man.

Reliving past glories, with a hazy trail, 

no shame-no tears, his soul so stale.

Throwing life away, with such short a span, 

inhaling poison tar, lay the old man. 

Blessed green grass, blessed sky blue, 

you came across me, now damned be you.

He died all his life, and now he was done.

The old man went home, at twenty-one.