Old Soul

Here I sit in a darken room, thinking amoungst all the gloom. Officially I'm 52 but I know that's not really true. For I have fought many battles, lived many lives. Loved many woman all while wearing my disguise.

This body might be 52 but I'm an old soul, a soul that is old as the trees that sway in the summers breeze. How did I get this way you ask? Why can I not rest at last? That I cannot say, for rest is for another day. It is my lot in the universe you see, to live a thousand lives and be.

To be the solider that sacrifices for his buddy, to be the poet that has no money. To give the world ideas to think and maybe inbetween sneak a drink. To write the stories that make you laugh all the while living in a draft. I observe the human condition you see, with the task not to interfere but instead to hold a mirror up before the world.

So that one day I can rest when the world has done it's best. For only then can my soul be at rest. In a peace that comes when you are finally done & the door to heaven finally opens with the of the raising sun. 

Until then I will ever be, just an old soul, an old soul that's me.