His voice how it rasped,
It was decades old and frayed,
It won’t matter where at night you laid,
So long it’s you who made the bed.
This man wore sun-browned skin,
Like the broken rings of his roots,
Don’t walk in another man’s boots,
He made known,
Until that is you can fill your own.
His fingers were like worn leather,
Wrapped around crooked bones,
Don’t let your last words be winter stones,
He quietly conveyed,
Ain’t no one gonna warm you but that bed you made.
His aged chuckle withered,
Into a forlorn whisper from his shaky core,
Dove, in the end we are all mindless,
Under the weight of our desire for more.