I strolled through a dusty old road
It was a Summer evening, mildly cool
As I chanced upon an old tavern
There sat an old man singing
With an urge for a drink, I approached
Sat on a wooden stool, ordered a drink
The old man called out, as if he knew me
I waved back, as I knew him too
Past the third mug, I started to hum along
As the songs seemed familiar
Of times long gone
And this time I ordered another mug
For the old man with his ukelele
As he strum, I saw his fingers were chapped
He may have felt no pain in them
For they seemed like they have strum for years
As his voice has sung it seemed
A few thousand of songs
As the moon rose,
Like drunks do, unapologetically
I asked him his name mid song
He smiled and said, I knew him
I for some reason called out my own name
He then asked me to sing along
It was a song, a story of my own
Full of events and happenings that were past
As we reached the end of it, I paused and saw
He had my face, my shoes, and my clothes
I realized then, I was at my end
At that I woke, lying in my bed
Who but a poet's dearest friend stood there
The grim reaper, the truest of pursuits
I reached out my hand leaving my shell behind
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