As the years go by
I grow older, wiser,
Always thinking of that
Young lad slowly wasting
What tragic life he had.
Gifted was he, yet he never had
Seen the gifts hidden within,
The laughs and the beers
Hiding his pain, drowning
His sorrows, his gifts and talents
Becoming obsolete, getting older,
His voice keeps on going,
You’re getting there,
Bellowing deep inside,
You’ve realised your gift,
It’s using words. The old man
Thought to himself, if only
I had listened to
That young lad
As he sat back whilst
Enjoying his beer
Thinking of distant
Memories.
