And of getting old,

Our path in life is swift,

Often not with the last breath,

Being our final parting gift.

Leaving hopeless ones to sit and stare,

In mocking reverence at this parting fare,

All lined in imitation silk,

And encased of glistening oak.

An organ will churn sad notes that burn

And leave those that live, without hope.

For the hands of time,

Have penned this rhyme,

thus rendering dreams of smoke.

For time never was on my side,

As countless things remain unsaid and done.

So in somber gratitude, I bid my adieu

And wait for final the breath of the setting sun.

 
J. Allen Wilson © 2004