Sitting by the old oak tree,
in a withered rocking chair,
The cold wind blowing steadily,
The sun setting in the horizon,
Squirrels squeaking, birds chirping,
In a trance, reliving what was, engrossed
in what might have been,
Intently, my eyes follow the shriveled
falling leaves, a reminder of my Imminent
demise,
Were my life ventures worthwhile?
Did I live for me, or did I live for society?
Was the status quo a reality, or a delusion?
Was I swayed from what truly counted?
Were all my life pursuits futile, I wonder?
When my peers were making homes, I was
making an empire,
When my peers were making families, I was
making a corporate,
When my peers were sharing the holidays with
their children, I was making commercials. I
attained the wealth I sought, not the right kind,
at least not what truly mattered,
The vaccum I feel is excruciating,
The loneliness beyond fathom,
There isn’t a worse fate. These
are the unsettling days of a lonely
old man. Hairs are dropping, before
long I’ll be left bald; I’ll be the bald old
man obsessed with a life not lived.
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