As the twilight smoke roosts in his forlorn yard
The old man rouses from a dazed drowse
For one more trudge past that bygone boulevard
To walk a misspent life to rue, coddled echoes to carouse
Gazing the shades of fleeting days, gaging life in lingering nightfalls
Seeking to infer His signs profound, he tries to read the heavens high
A life amiss, strewn years across age, dwelled in a castle with empty walls
“Who made this of you?” I asked, he said “Me, myself, who else” with a throbbing sigh
Not so charmed, he warily recounts, the costs and throbs of a so-so life
What became of him, a soul pristine, over time, why he squandered away?
A gift sublime, would a frenzied soul know, how to spend, with insolence rife?
“So be it!” as he atones and reconciles, in the cold light of day
How fondly kindled, a…
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