When I’m old and dreary

I’ll recognize the sweet lull of cold silence.

Excite from the dull, insipid crickets in the air

Or the numbing grass on the hard ground.

Feel and hold the melancholy ache

Of nothing, and nobody

Being around.

Like a relive of first discovery’s.

I’ll clutch the lacking old picture,

Framed by the books.

And run my fingers over them,

Feeling strange contentment.

Remembering what once was,

And finding peace in the mundane.