The Old Man

He sits in a corner, of a place he owns
Of his diminishing vision he moans
The table littered with six pounder books
He gets lodged in his private dusty nooks

Where he dreams, day in and out
With his own argument and his own clout
A requiem of sorts, a celebration of death
The past lives on till he holds his breath

He picks up his pen and draws his dream
Shuddering of ingenuity, its a silent scream
Delusional, yet heavenly bright
A black chart is born on his royal white

But it will not live beyond the dream
It has no pistons to work the steam
No cranks for the pistons to run
No wheels for the cranks to turn

It is a promise to be broken
Its in effect a counterfeit token
A vacuum filled empty vault
A credit paper about to default

On the crust he wrinkles, but inside he cries
With every unfaithful chart he dies
A death of his future, his present and his past
With each chart he wishes this were his last

And then he gets off his corner, wrinkles apart
To grind his bones into another start
With seasoned pessimism at his heart
Wishing that this were his last chart