for the man, there’s an age
a certain age, closer to his
ending than his beginning,
when he counts the sum
of the things he’s done and
those things he didn’t do,
he comes to conclude his life
didn’t amount to much,
the things he valued, sought
after, collected, will become
the fuel of his funeral pyre,
his poor decisions, choices,
regrets, have formed a
cancer within his mind,
things that once mattered,
lose the will to matter more,
the children he once cared for
now must care for him,
he is forced to consider the
difference between his home
and a home,
his home a safe haven,
a home his prison,
for the man, there’s an age
a certain age, when he becomes
free to seek solace on the
pillow of his memories
*
© Graham R Sherwood 03/26
grahamrichardsherwood.co.uk 