when I am old
there will be a porch
with a beautiful view
a chair
a table
with a glass of whiskey
next to a bottle of whiskey
next to a thick blank notebook
next to a collection of pens
atop a pile of memories
within a cave of regrets
below a mountain of dreams
and I will sip
and I will write
and I will age the last years away
and fall when the ink
finally dries out
and the last drop
soaks me through
No comments:
Post a Comment