To the man with which we watch
As he sits there reminiscing of times that once were
Remembering his youth and years that have passed
Contemplating on how the world should be and how it is
Reading a novel of long ago to the inspirations of himself
The thoughts that strike him are plain and clear
Thinking why no one else can see the same
What has happened in the short times passed?
Loss of strength
Barely keeping one eye open
Only if he could conjure the will to lift himself from the chained chair to once again feel like a man, Not a discarded doll with too much mileage and not enough to go
While musing his thoughts, slowly drifting off to the golden slumber
Sleeping away his life, too soon to realize what will come to be
A lost soul in the children’s eyes
The innocence of what will come is now lost as the realization of every time must end
As the sun blisters away the paint from the chair and the fabric beneath slowly fades away
He still sits there losing consciousness of what is around
The head slowly rises to catch a glimpse of the life he lives
Then once more gently sinking down, down to the point of no return
Like gasping for air for a man that cannot swim
Up and down like a roller coaster more dips than raises
With his worn out leather boots and his faded jeans
Tethered and torn
Show some resemblance of the life he once lived
But no more shall he run like the wind
Fly like the birds
Free as his youth
And the hair which is upon his head has thinned to a whisper and lost colour and distinction
The face that has seen so much
Kissed so many woman
Loved so many people
Eaten so much junk
Seen so much filth
Is withering away, the father figure can’t answer the call
The ideas of a cruel less free world, with a perfect utopia has long passed
For the strength that binds he has also passed the date of any use
Free-to-all he sometimes cried from the lips of his empty mouth
But no more for the environment he’ll sing
No more for the street march he’ll walk
No more for the move forward action and thoughts that now elude his mind
Still the wind cries his name
The reply will be empty and with no sound for it’s a dying shame
The garden that grows and was once nurtured from his weary hands
Gently drifts back into the soil from which it came
The plants die of thirst of knowledge and wisdom
The trees too, suffocate by malnutrition of his beautiful ideas
Fascinating and mystic
The only thing that grows within is the looming death or is it the lump of regret
Only one thing is certain which is the pending doom of no existence
Only in thoughts
Remembering him for ‘what he was and not what he is’ they moan,
But only time will tell who the real friends and who are just fake and tacky
Hiding behind their shadows, only to fear him, but not out of resentment
But fear of his ideas and his principles that mean so much to him
Pill boxes of things of all sorts that are piled on top of each other
A never ending cycle, pain goes, take one
The pain comes back, take another
What happened to not becoming like the previous?
But it happens inevitably; to anyone who carries such a sickness
The doctors don’t mind what they hand out as long as it keeps him away from the ward
And keeps you satisfied to the point of delusion
-storiesofthestreet
