A Story of an Old Man

He took another drink from
That bottle he called his life,
And he laid down his bald head
Right next to his aging wife.
He tried to shut his eyes, but
Sleep was not coming that fast;
So he focused his mind on
His frequent trips to the past.
The farm where he spent his days;
The shed where he slept his nights,
Dreaming of the coming days
When everything would be right.
He saw the first car he drove;
The creek in which he did swim;
He saw these things from his past,
And slowly, sleep came to him...

The next day, he woke up late,
Right next to his aging wife.
He took another drink from
That bottle he called his life.
He stumbled to the kitchen;
Poured a small cup of coffee
And sat back, drinking it down
So tenderly and softly.
And thus began his routine
That he followed every day.
But he never did complain;
He was not raised up that way.
He would water his garden;
He might drive to that small store,
Where he would buy the same things
Just like countless times before.
The he'd go home to his wife,
And maybe watch some T.V.;
But his mind would not be there...
It would be home, running free.
The farm where he spent his days;
The shed where he slept his nights,
Dreaming of the coming days
When everything would be right.
He saw the first car he drove;
The creek in which he did swim;
He saw these things from his past,
And slowly, sleep came to him...

The next day, he woke up late,
Right next to his aging wife.
He took another drink from
That bottle he called his life.
He stumbled to the kitchen;
Poured a small cup of coffee
And sat back, drinking it down
So tenderly and softly.
His wife walked in, looked at him,
And said: "We are out of bread.
I would go, but I rather
Like you to please go instead."
So he watered his garden,
Then he drove to that small store,
And began to buy the things
Just like countless times before.
Oh, but today was different;
Today was a special day.
Things would not be happening
In quite the very same way.
Instead of reaching for bread,
The man reached down to his chest,
As a painful, tight feeling
Shot down his right arm and breast.
He gasped, feeling his breath leave
In a little puff of air.
He then heard people screaming,
But he was too hurt to care.
He slumped down to the cold floor,
Seeing only the shade red.
He felt an evil pounding
In the back of his bald head.
Plus, there was some ticking sound,
Like the ticking of a clock;
And even through his harsh pain,
The man felt his heart just stop.
He knew what he was feeling:
The end of his days were here;
And instead of feeling calm,
He felt a mad rush of fear.
He struggled to make a word;
He wished to be near his wife.
After all, she stood by him
Throughout all of his hard life.
But he could not form the words;
That sound was more louder now.
He gasped, and struggled for air,
And felt sweat form on his brow.
As his eyes rolled in his head,
He sensed a deep shade of black.
He knew, somewhere in his mind,
That he would never go back.
And in his heart, he cried out
For the things he'd never see:
His wife, his car, his garden;
And even his old T.V.
He wanted to hold those things
Like he'd never done before.
But he knew it was over:
He would die here on this floor.
And his soul cried out in pain,
For the things he left on earth;
For the things he took granted
From the moment of his birth.
Suddenly, it seemed like his
Early days were not so great.
Yet all he had done was think
Of them until his heart would break.
He had neglected the things
He had in his life right now.
But his thinking was all done.
The sweat dried on his old brow.
And with his final moments,
He tried to think of his wife;
But the only thing he saw
Was that bottle he called life.
After all, he spent much more
Time with that than with much else.
And a single teardrop formed,
As he cried for his old self.
And as death overtook him,
He begged not to go to hell;
Even though his earthly life
Had not been that just and well.
His mind settled down to rest,
As people in that store screamed.
But his mind was not in there...
It was at home, running free.
The farm where he spent his days;
The shed where he slept his nights,
Dreaming of the coming days
When everything would be right.
He saw the first car he drove;
The creek in which he did swim;
He saw these things from his past,
And slowly, sleep came to him...


~J.V.Harker~
~2006~