• The black, dreary curtains silently flow,
    as, ever wearily, the wind continues to blow

    in the grand old house which only one has ever been in
    the sorrowful Old Man is, to himself, confessing his sins.

    Confessing, so pitifuly, in his quiet dark room,
    For he knows what, over him, will soon loom.

    Confessing of all the hate, and the lies
    Confessing of all the people he swatted like flies

    Confessing for the smoking he never quite quited.
    Confessing most of the love he hid, in fear of it being unrequited.

    He wonders if he could have grown old with the one that he loved
    He wonders if, with his mother, he could have been less gruff

    He wonders what his life could have been
    If he had opened his soul and simply just let life in.

    But the old man sighs, a sigh of relief
    and quietly a tear runs down his cheek.

    Perhaps this was not an end, but simply a beginning,
    as your body grew frail, and your hair started thinning

    The old man sighs, no more hate, no more lies,
    And Lies out on his bed, finally ready to die.