Poor Man's Bag of Golds
a poor man used to own two things.
ink and feather he save on shelf.
alone and old,no one took care.
inside his house, a wreck oak chair.
during night the wind blows so cold.
a broken kettle warmth his soul.
a cup of ginger tea, a smile he holds.
filled in the hollow space untold.
seven decades have passed his way.
folks and family has left away.
in a small penny can't build a home.
his wife and children throw him alone.
too many days run out of his life.
the twilight is now hiding in the dark.
patiently waiting for his hour to come.
his eyes rested, open the gate of sky.
this old man who owns two little things.
an ink and feather he saved on shelf.
these hide a story that never been told.
the man who owns a bag of golds.
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