Old, grey man,
never took a thing,
except when he was young,
he took everything.
Burned hot as a star,
blazed up that old, night sky,
back when you could really watch them go,
back when songs were miracles.
Holding on the another day,
another sunglasses
and cigarette masquerade,
past the media parade
straight into the night,
always hard enough
to fuck or fight.
Years came and went.
Painful revelations,
withdrawing the needle,
regretful penetrations.
Cold as the corpse
of your best friend
on the bathroom floor.
The taste of vomit
on your lips,
but still go back for more.
Success sung
“Survival”.
Thirty years ago,
and anthem played
on the radio
to this day,
but so much for those
who didn’t make it,
they didn’t know.
Luck?
Sure, maybe.
God?
Might as well be.
Nothing of this world
can account
for a man
who went through all of that
to still be breathing.
You speak words slowly, now.
No need to shout.
They’re crafted and thoughtful
and there’s something in your eyes
that tells me,
all that waste
wasn’t wasted.
You woke up one day
and understood,
that you were in a unique place,
and able to see the world
differently from others.
So many packed it in,
so many ran and hid,
but you stayed relevant.
Stranger still,
you seem stronger
than young men
half your age.
Even though you’ve lived
a million days
in one short lifetime.
Old, grey man
show us the way
as you see it.
HG – 2021
