If he, like I, whom view with dimming light:
The final setting sun within his glass;
By his depressed and decade's bitter sight;
With stare of sombre eyes, his hours pass,
Onto himself may wish his furrows filled;
And brighter sun complex upon his face:
By reminiscence make what years had splilled;
That he may shine within back yonder grace:
Dear friend, decay has not yet creased your heart;
Why spend the seconds bitter of your years?
Your face is yours as born it's youthful start,
Enough of time is bitter, minus tears!
For those devout whom seek where times began
Are merely many time's unhappy fan.
