Sitting alone in a dimly lit room, the old mans chest pulls tight as his head is pounding, feeling faint and with blurred vision, he stumbles to his chair, as the rain pours down outside, the noise to much to bear, tired and exhausted from a life of poverty, he wonders is this it, has my time finally come, or will my suffering just go on, from a life of pain and struggle, he worries not of his failing heart, for if he goes before nightfall no cry for him will come, and if he makes it another day, it must just God’s way.
Looking back there have been many waves, most crashing against the rocks, and dragging ones body down, for the sunny days often filled with pain and tears, from battles in muddied fields, to solemn nights alone, no time has been kind to this old man sitting alone.
Born from chaos, and tossed into strife, no life for anyone, but this old lonely man, climbed the highest hills, and sank to the bottom of the deepest seas, from reach to the stars, to screaming on his knees, time has not been kind to me.
No love to be, no one for me, a virus I am for so many have fled from me, to sit on the edge of the water to see the fish swim away, no birds of the air would ever come near.
Hit by a train, only to be lifted up and told to go on, beaten by life but denied to die, to fight each night it is not right, nightmares abound, no peace to ever be found.
Time as useless as life, for no reason to be, for this lonely old man is me.
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