#193

Too old.

Too old for his voice not to croak
as he forced the air from his lungs
and made the echoes shudder.

But it didn't.

His grown beard and mustache
traced the smile hidden beneath.

His head was balding,
akin to a forest
that had recently caught fire.
His eyes were still burning—
the possible cause of the forest fire.

But none of that mattered.

It was his songs, first and foremost,
by which he would be remembered.

He knew this.

He was happy about it.

He wrote the lyrics,
sang the song, time and time again,
until his days grew silver
and his hair grew sparse.

Still, he could sing the melody.
He could claim it as an anthem.

Though old,
he could still sing his own song.

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