Death beyond the shuttered window waits,
The old shoes, The stumbling gait. 
A stranger walking, in the other room,
Ever present and patient doom.



Someday I'll name this, maybe:




Often I wonder, 

About friends and close relations,
 
How we stand or sit, makes little

Difference which,

Excusing our present condition.

Or worse yet much time we waste,

Reminiscing of medals, past won.

Or boasting of plans for the future,

In the present, though nothing gets done.