As he sat in God’s waiting room,
And cast his mind back to the past.
When he’d thrown a disenchanted
glance at the moon,
And wrote about a love
That didn’t last.
The folly of the path he took,
Was lost in irony a bitter sigh.
The words carved from mind,
They mistook and threw
A jaundiced eye
Over toiled work he’d thought,
Would ‘May’ the spring day brighter.
With a way of words that
couldn’t be taught.
His later pages stayed much whiter
Than what was said before,
As his mind grew feeble and old.
Dusk danced and came
to the fore,
The fire went out and
In crept the cold.
Living in Waterford City, formerly lived in Copenhagen. Former journalist with Insight Magazine, Dublin. Likes dogs, football, coffee. Enjoys observing and watching nature change for inspiration in writing.