His face grew cold, his bones were old.
His story was timeless, it deserved to be told.
Sit with him, pray to God – “Wait.
Let him gather his memories, from each a lesson can be made.”
Say “Goodbye” – for a first, for a last,
Try and blame time, who took a hero too fast.
Laying outside, in the light of the moon.
I still see him in starts that explode too soon.
Sometimes I feel young.
I can smell lunchroom plastic,
and taste sandwich burps.
A mean old man I know,
done in by his own demise –
drank and smoked and spoke of all the women he’s fucked,
mercilessly and smiling.
drinking and smoking and fucking,
He lives on,
and this old man is
he is my soul,
or what would be my soul if an old man hadn’t traded it,
for a fifth,
and a pack of smokes.
and he comes out when I’m drunk or stoned,
he comes out old
But I like him,
I’ve wait 20 years.
I have a longer time to wait before I can be
Old and mean,
outside where my soul should be.
and when the time comes,
and I’m dieing,
and people ask
“why are you so old and mean?”
I’ll tell them to
because I have mold where my heart would be.