He has no use for them now,
so he opened this shoppe.
The sign there says, "OPEN,"
but no soul dares stop.
Through the translucent windows
the townsfolk walk past.
On the dusty wood floors,
all their shadows are cast.
Lining stone walls
are the rusted old toys,
some all-telling relics
from a hopeful young boy.
The patrons just see
some tainted old junk,
in a shop being run
by some lonely old drunk.
No one buys what he sells,
so he silently cries;
A little boy hidden
behind those old, mist shrouded eyes.
Just a poem about my fear of growing old. Wasted potential and alcoholism are common themes in my family. I don't want to end up like the rest.