by Marcus Draik

His room is cold, and dreary
And he shivers in his chair
He's tired, and he aches
He wants to rest
His hands are old, and withered
And they need a cheering touch
Will his children come today?
Will he see them once again
Or have they forgotten
His eyes are pale, and glassy
And their eyelids sink with weight
And he fears them, as they close,
As they shut the light
Behind the shambles doors

The windows beamed upon them
As she'd watched him
Then her child
Astir in his crib, astir in this very room
A breath ago
Her child cried
And loving arms came,
Cheerful and warm,
Settling him to sleep

The pasture ends
For daylight's fatling
Time has bound him
Confined to his chair, confined by the faded walls
He knows it's lost
He'll never feel the sunshine, or the breeze
The feel of the summer grass between his toes
The excited impatience of youth on a rainy day
His day is passed
His twilight blurs in tears
His rest draws near
The feebled child
Bereft of time
Is crying himself to sleep