He turns the page Of old age For what was once the rage Now sits in his cage It's been a war to wage This, life's final stage The pressure gauge Ticking on so outrage Ticking by in ménage For his book's cleavage Untouched and derange Year's wasted and disengaged If only there was no leakage Or ever such seepage Life on his barren range With no panacea to assuage No wife ever, no cat, no life to engage Nothing but red read rage Now in his final chapter, this cage This cage, death does he part this rampage A life perched without marriage For he married to himself backstage Where his curtain veiled fruitage In lieu of looking at the skies for dosage He fell hostage to his hermitage Yet this, his bottled pilgrimage Sinking now in raging montage He does sit beseeched in his passage And hopes someday to bid bon voyage With direr hopes of turning a better page
It's been Hell for him. Life was never easy. A solo crossing, that yearned for a duet but that was not meant to be. Note-Wow. Read this poem over and over, like looking into a mirror, truly sad.