The old man slowly arises
From his profound sleep,
Groggy head, blurred vision,
The love of his life, lying at his side,
A solitary tear escaping his pale blue eyes,
A remembrance of their dance engulfing his mind.
They received a son with hair of gold,
A child they treasured, bejeweled in murals upon their walls,
Days of laughter and years in richness,
Sweet smiles and countless kisses.
A man he became as he did grow,
Strong and sturdy, with a heart of dreams.
The day did arrive he resolved his attention
On far away kingdoms with hopes of wealth,
He sailed his ship on waves of grand
A madness he chased while he grew old –
never to return;
His father misses him, his mother cries.
I always wonder how much of your writing is autobiographical.
some is and some is not…;)