The Dying Man

I see this old man sometimes
He sits on a rocking chair
Out on his broken porch
I would often catch him stare

Out into nothingness, just empty fields
lush green that are now covered in mold
just like his tired, exhausted self
But maybe he was always this old

He has a book in his lap, a different one every week
His wrinkled fingers slowly turning the yellow
pages of those old forgotten books
with stories that are tragic so

that his eyes go blank, back to a past
where not all was lost, and his heart too
was a little less broken, and though not peachy
not everything appeared in shades of blue

I see this man smile sometimes
at a bunch of kids running wild
standing way out front with his broken stick
I wish I could him as a child

With sparkling eyes that have blurred over time
and fresh hopes that have now brutally died
I wish I could have seen him love
the memories of the one he still keeps by his side

I often imagine different scenarios of his life;
an old lady sitting by his side, with the same smile
on her face that stole his young heart and the way
he looks at her after all these years, all this while;

a handsome young man, just about my age
with a lovely wife, a beautiful son
reading news to him, out on the porch;
Had he also imagined this one?

Did he see his life pass by him over and over;
regret his decisions on his rocking chair?
did he feel sorry for the things he had not done
or does he smile ever so righteously without a care?

I often see this dying man
always an inch from his grave
and just as often I ask myself
Would i ever be this brave?

Would I still be sane in loneliness?
Able to smile in excruciating pain?
Would I keep on living with a broken heart?
Or would I just die in vain?

I turn to him for answers
but all that's left is a blur
I just find myself staring
at my reflection in the mirror