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On Saturn's day, his body quakes, the lights go out, and the craters form. He drinks the rye to ease the shakes and watches as the cicadas swarm. His records are warped from cellar air, his walls are stained nicotine yellow. The night creeps in from beneath his chair to taunt and **** this charming fellow. Fifty years of motherless meals and fifty years of loveless mistakes. Fifty years of seasonal wheels and fifty years of screeching brakes. Fifty years of challenges met and fifty years of swallowing pride. Fifty years and not dead yet, and fifty more before he has died. He draws in deep from his old cob pipe and exhales the smoke toward the fan. Once the orchards are good and ripe he'll go outside and tame his land. Until that day, he's mighty content with sitting back and wasting his time. These are the last days before his descent, there is no call for reason or rhyme.   Fifty years of unpaid rent, and fifty years of tall tales lost. Fifty years he can't repent, and fifty years of permafrost. Fifty years that won't come back, and fifty years of worn down soles. Fifty years of catching flak, and fifty years spent digging holes.
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Feb 28, 2015
Feb 28, 2015 at 6:29 AM UTC
Fifty Years
On Saturn's day, his body quakes, the lights go out, and the craters form. He drinks the rye to ease the shakes and watches as the cicadas swarm. His records are warped from cellar air, his walls are stained nicotine yellow. The night creeps in from beneath his chair to taunt and **** this charming fellow. Fifty years of motherless meals and fifty years of loveless mistakes. Fifty years of seasonal wheels and fifty years of screeching brakes. Fifty years of challenges met and fifty years of swallowing pride. Fifty years and not dead yet, and fifty more before he has died. He draws in deep from his old cob pipe and exhales the smoke toward the fan. Once the orchards are good and ripe he'll go outside and tame his land. Until that day, he's mighty content with sitting back and wasting his time. These are the last days before his descent, there is no call for reason or rhyme.   Fifty years of unpaid rent, and fifty years of tall tales lost. Fifty years he can't repent, and fifty years of permafrost. Fifty years that won't come back, and fifty years of worn down soles. Fifty years of catching flak, and fifty years spent digging holes.
tlp
#man#death#sleep#night#old#age#farm#tyler#lynn#pulliam
tyler-lynn-pulliam
Written by
tyler-lynn-pulliam
American
Feb 28, 2015
Feb 28, 2015 at 6:29 AM UTC
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