He Waits For His Day.

Oldie but goldie, Poetry

He waits for his day,

Or night if it shall be,

When he joins his friends

In the afterlife that maybe.

Today, another friend abandoned him.

Tonight, he shall weep alone.

Tomorrow, he shall mourn no more,

For he shall learn again to live alone.

To loss, his nerves seem immune.

Weathered eyes and a body frail.

Sickness, victories, life he endured,

But one day, Death shall prevail.

His stoic manner, as ever, lies.

But not when his mother, wife, sister died.

Still, alone he defies Death in silence.

But not when his father, brother, son all died.

His eyes smile apparently only,

When he holds his grand or great-grandchild.

Joy explodes in his dim old eyes.

At night comes the sadness he exiled.

In the cold of the night,

Night’s loneliness, sleep stays away.

And memory unsheathes its daggers,

And the banshee of Age keeps Hope at bay.

The voices echo and sing him to sleep.

The faces greet and frolic in dream.

Past is Present, and Present is Past, soon.

He sighs as every morning is not a dream.

He cries for his beloveds in loneliness.

The streams are dry, still, Life holds sway.

In the dreary day, and weary in the night

He waits for his day.


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