Old Man Dying

there's an old man dying in a small bedroom filled with books and worn out clothes and old socks with holes there's an ashtray that always needs to be emptied; blinds that are as twisted as his fingers and his toes there's an old man dying in the shadow of his father's dreams, his father's world, choking on the bad taste of his own prayers forgotten and mountaintops bartered; in the mist of cannot touch, can't lay with again and love sweat grown cold, gone stale as the lines, the wrinkles on his face, and hands that tremble there's an old man dying and somewhere, there's a young man being born!