He
was an old man who never saw the sun. Sure he walked outside, in his
baby blue bath robe with his morning whisky, out in his Alaskan
paradise. He went there to be alone and wither in peace. And he
withered, his mind clear, in a whisky induced zen like state. But he
never did see the sun.
He
would walk outside to breath in the air and appreciate being alone
but he never looked past his nose to learn the truth. Never did he
seek enlightenment past the bottle and never did he meditate on his
actions in life. And so he withered in the sun without paying it any
mind, like a raisin.
His
kids never visited his wife was dead. He had no friends, abandoned
those when the cold realization of mortality came to him in the form
of aching joints. And one day those joints failed him, when he fell
down his porch steps. On his back he stared at the noon day sun.
And he cried the kind of tears broken old men cry, tears of
defeat…and regret.
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