In the sunrise of the morning he has hope.
But his legs are shaky, his hands tremble and the effort to move is great.
He stands in the mirror looking at a man who has aged far beyond his years,
His skin to the touch is like leather, worn before it's time,
The wrinkles of his life are deep and many,
He struggles with his shirt, his pants, his belt, his life
He tells himself the same lie he will tell others,
"it's good, I am fine, it could be worse"
But it is not good, he is not fine and it will get worse.
His hands he can no longer trust.
His arms move about as if the strings of the puppet master are broken,
and the coffee is precious.
He tries to hide his struggles, but his body will not lie.
He sits and rocks and moves about.
His hands folded tight in his lap, his fingers clinching what they can.
And he smiles and nods to the strangers as they pass,
He has been called, a drunk, a drug addict
He can hear them whisper,
Like a clown with a painted smile he sits quietly dreaming of the past,
When his hands were steady,
And his voice was strong,
Time is counted from one pill to the next.
He tries with all his might to hold off, to wait a just a moment or two more,
But his body demands and is mind is weak
And he struggles to swallow the only relief,
He wonders if one is enough or has the weight of day is screaming for more.
He knows that the night ahead is long,
The shadows once hidden by daylight are now his friends in the night,
His want and his desire to dream are lost to the sounds of the clock.
Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock,
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