THE OLD MAN

The old man sat down and wrote,

“These words will be my last.

Daylight grows short,

And the skies are overcast.”

He poured out his heart,

Words falling like sheets of rain.

Each line flowed into the next,

Becoming a river of pain.

He wrote of his life,

Of times that were mostly bad.

Now approaching the end,

He was both glad and sad.

He wrote of loneliness and loss,

Of all the tears he cried.

And when he finished writing,

The old man bowed his head and died.

Michael D. Schafer

© October 5, 2017