He opened the door with trembling hands
And slowly shuffled out to the street,
Looking confused, for a moment he stands,
A picture of despair and utter defeat.
He pauses a moment at the sagging front gate
And looks both ways with unseeing eyes,
The folk rushing past unaware of his fate
But is he a figure that we should despise?
On a seat on the sidewalk, detached he sits there
And reminisces on lifeís daily demands,
The droop of his shoulders reflect his despair,
As he sits alone with his head in his hands.
His face is a road map as if etched in oil
And quite plainly reflect the ravage of time,
His wrinkled old hands tell a lifetime of toil
But many years have passed since his prime.
His sad eyes reflect a wisdom untold,
Of a lifetime of dreams that have flown,
And he thinks of his past as he sees it unfold,
Down a pathway that to us is unknown.
In his youth, what was his ambitionís design?
Did he have a wife and family to love?
What factor has brought him down this road of decline?
Did he accidentally fall or was he given a shove.
It is so easy to condemn and defame
And too often we are all apt to do that,
But would our summation still be the same
If we knew the true history of Pat..