The black, dreary curtains silently flow,
as, ever wearily, the wind continues to blow
in the grand old house which only one has ever been in
the sorrowful Old Man is, to himself, confessing his sins.
Confessing, so pitifuly, in his quiet dark room,
For he knows what, over him, will soon loom.
Confessing of all the hate, and the lies
Confessing of all the people he swatted like flies
Confessing of the smoking he never quite quited.
Confessing most of the love he hid, in fear of being unrequited.
And the old man wept mornfully that day, in the opposite of a loud din,
and wondered what his life could have been,
He wonders if he could have grown old with the one that he loved
He wonders if, with his mother, he could have been less gruff
He wonders what his life could have been
If he had simply just let life in.
But the old man sighs, a sigh of relief
and quietly a tear runs down his cheek.
Perhaps this was not an end, but simply a beginning,
as your body grew frail, and your hair started thinning
The old man sighs, no more hate, no more lies,
And Lies out on his bed, finally ready to die.
i wrote a better version randomly in my english class, but lost it, and couldnt find it... this is the best i could do to replicate it x.x
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