He wakes in the morning
Sore from all the years before
But he's still strong at his core
As life always proceeds without warning


This morning's no different
He gets his coffee and sits at the table
Looking out the window, admiring the horses in the stable
Though he's at the age where he feels indifferent


Later on in the day he gets moving
For a dead man is a lazy man
He knows long ago he would have ran
But these days he’s bound to keep improving

A man that should be full of sorrow
He finds a way to enjoy the moment
Grief to him is a worthy opponent
As he looks forward to each tomorrow


The trick is locked away in his mind
He figured it out long ago
Back when he let go of his ego
The trick is to start with what you want to find

What!? You say you're tired of living,
well, I think I know what you mean
as I also don't regard myself being
particularly, at all now, very keen.

The last couple of years have taken their toll on me
so much so that its become obvious for any to see.
The affairs of this world are just one thing I've considered
but what are the things I've done which haven't delivered?
________

an open door
preched upon a
quiet hill

rusty old door
waiting for no one
stands still

when it rains and
when it spills—

         and

from her rails her
branches burgeon

her roots carved
into the soil

wooden stiles
freed of burden

now sprawl out
into the void

from her keyway
her eyes pry

shattered glass
that took her voice



her hinges


the last of her




last of a home
left for spoils


the last of a home
withered and spoilt




O' the lonely wooden
door!


the paint has
withered away

         time




once it had a
home

once there was
a home



the last of steps
the beginning of
nothing


no windows
no walls
no nothing

       and

my favourite
place

the last of
my steps

my kingdom of
a thousand thoughts
caught and spilled




filled by the silence
that haunts


O' my lonely old
door!


how it weeps
—old door



in the mouth
of autumn

through the month
of summers

in the lashing
winds of mid year

every shade of
winter




now craved in
the ruins

that only comes
but with age



O' the lonely old
door!

holding a sunset


     stands still