The Old House and Nature’s Fate

Blind eyes pretending to be clear
foul mouth praising all that’s square.
Squatting in the shadow tired and worn
dreaming of glory days, dreading a storm.
The moss grows strong, decay’s a treat
the nettles scratch at rotting feet,
their softest touch feels like a kick
Is that laughter or memory’s trick?
He confesses his sins to nature’s fate
but nature smiles and says, ”Too late.”

He confessed his sins in the final hour filled with dread.
The priest bent over and whispered softly, ”Drop dead!”
Dartwill Aquila

(Tomorrow: Owners of Words and Pictures)