The writer sat with his pad
As he calmly lit a cigarette
And he wrote his note
Without remorse or regret.
He had watched his life
Come and go by so fast
And he realized
Nothing good is meant to last.
He thought of places he'd been
Sights that he had seen
Words spoken in anger
Things that he didn't mean.
Loves come and gone
Moments that slipped by
And even in his sadness
He refused to cry.
He had seen the beauty
Of a glorious sunrise
The miracles of everyday life
Seen through his own eyes.
He had felt the chill of a fall day
Colorful leaves dancing on air
A beautiful ballet
That mother nature was willing to share.
He'd known a woman
Somewhere in a long ago
Drinking warm whiskey
And dancing real slow.
He was tired of writing
The rest of the story could keep
So he put down his pad
And wearily went to sleep.
[c]2011 T.LaFountain