I once knew an old man,
with a life past,
his history with dark shadows,
some memories not to last.
He spoke of adventures,
of the roads he did travel,
places he visited,
my younger version did marvel.
His life a canvas,
colored so beautiful and bright,
he told me the stories,
from morning until night.
Spoke of the old days,
when life was still good,
people were friendly,
in his old childhood.
The old man told me his stories,
when his years were still pure,
he lived in the past,
where life was still sure.
James W. Spain