On a stool he sits
at the beer sticky bar
his face deep furrows
his eyes sad pools once aflame
lost in memories of vigorous youth
and hearts broken.
Nicotine stained fingers tremble
and seek purchase on the cold unyielding glass.
He remembers the gleeful shouts of boyhood
all muddy hands and scraped knees
lollipops and liquorice
tally-**'s and triumphs
before the end.
He remembers a girl
bright eyed and winter wild
wrapped in lace and garlands.
and the dreams they shared of things to come.
He remembers tiny fingers, laced with his
and sleep-warm milky breath against his cheek,
his reflection in adoring eyes
before the end.
He remembers arguments won and wars fought
friends lost in battles raw
young men returning with torn futures
their glory but a murmur
before the end.
He breathes a fractured sigh in memory of ghosts
and gossamer thin echoes
His long dead comrades at his shoulder now
beckoning him away, for they know his time is nigh
" once more" he whispers in silent hope
Before the end.
Same old man, same bar, same stool every week, always alone. Got me wondering....