The hospice bed where I rest, at eighty-three years old,
My grandkids bored; from all the stories I’ve told.
One question I ask myself, what I would like to answer,
As tears form in my eyes, aching pains from the cancer.
My son squeezes my hand, my daughter crying by my side,
Did I live my best life? Or did I just simply survive?
No fear of afterlife, purgatory or …, even being a ghost,
it’s that I accepted a life without trying, that scares me the most.
And it’s not just the pain, which forces these tears,
An existence in the comfort zone, amid, the following fears.
I’m scared I’ve lived my life, not fighting through the nerves,
I’m scared I wasn’t the husband, that my loving wife deserved.
I’m scared we didn’t spend as much time, as married couples all alone,
I’m scared I spent too long on date night, scrolling through on my phone.
I’m scared I gave in to my illness, without ever truly fighting,
I’m scared I’ll never see my book printed; I spent so long writing.
I’m scared I didn’t pursue my talent, for fortune and fame,
I’m scared I’ll pass away, with nobody knowing my name.
I’m scared I didn’t influence so much, the lives my kids had,
I’m scared I didn’t spend as much time with them, like I should as their dad.
I’m scared they’ll all end up where I am, looking up at the skies,
And I’m scared they’ll get to eighty-three, before they eventually realise.
That nobody is guaranteed tomorrow, we’re all on borrowed time,
And they’ve woken up, old, with a hopeless poem like mine.
And as I keep quiet, the encouraging words I wished to say,
My family finally open the window, letting my spirit fair away.
*****
I awaken from my slumber, wait, low and behold,
I’m not eighty-three, not even forty-years-old.
I look around the room, bedsheets pillows, covered in sweat,
God’s message through my dream, something I’ll never forget.
It’s time to act, because I have dreams and ambitions to guard.
No longer using the excuse, that my life has been hard.
No pondering mediocracy at eighty, absolutely… no way.
I’m not waiting for tomorrow, because I can start, today!
The following words, will not just be mindlessly spoken,
A promise to you all, a promise that’ll never be broken.
There’s not much money in writing, for most, that I do know,
But at least when I get to eighty-three, I’d have given it a go.
I will write twice as more, I will better this art,
Writings where I’m happiest, I know deep down in my heart.
And when it is my time, to say that final goodbye,
I’ll look up to the heavens and say, my God did I try.