The Rustic Old Miner

The Rustic Old Miner He lived in the hills in a little shack traveled he slowly back and forth. Heavy load resting upon his weary back back to his mountain in far North. Had no family that he dare call his own solitary soul living life lonely. Amid wild animals and hard mountain stone thought about love but once only! Love held no candle to his mountain view where sun rose but ever so slowly. Had all his old tools, needed nothing new one old bible and it was very holy. He might do with just one worn out pick dawn to dark, hard stones he broke. Staying tough and very hard was the trick quick into work every morn he woke. He felt no rough weather deep in his mine just sweat and pains, stone breaking. No complaints, his life to him just fine never one to be lousy belly-aching. Years flew by and he found a little gold life and those views held him fast. One cool morn he woke to find himself old never dreaming, it could be his last. Afternoon rolled on, his head was spinning that moment, his last breath taken. Had he known, he would have called it winning life over, soul had just been fakin'. R.J. Lindley April 24th , 1975 Note- From my private journal.