Reflections

This little work was presented to me by the father of my children as his own.
He later admitted that it was written by a friend (aquaintance?) who he also 'claimed' to have published something (a book?) The father of my children has passed from this life. He was a man of many contradictions. Yet something in this poem spoke to him. Perhaps it will speak to you too.

REFLECTIONS

THE FLICKERING FLAME AND THE LAMP IS LOW, AND SHADOWS DANCE AND LEAP.
A GREY HAIRED MAN, WITH WRINKLED BROW, SLOWLY NODS HIS HEAD IN SLEEP.
HIS CALOUSED HANDS, IN HIS LAP IS CLASPED AND HIS SHOULDERS SAG WITH AGE,
AND I WONDER AS I SEE HIM THERE, DOES HISTORY OWE HIM A PAGE.

CAN HE LOOK BACK UPON HIS LIFE AND SEE A JOB WELL DONE?
DOES HE HAVE A WIFE, A DAUGHTER, MAYBE EVEN A SON?
HAS HE MADE SOME CONTRIBUTION THAT WILL BETTER THE WORLD SOMEHOW?
OR HAS HE LIVED HIS LIFE IN VAIN, THAT LEAVES HIM NOTHING NOW.
HAS HE LIVED HIS LIFE IN VAIN, PURSUETH OF THE RAINBOW'S POT OF GOLD?
AND LIFE SCATTERETH IN HIS WAKE, BROKEN LIVES, AND HEARTS GROWN COLD.
HAS A MISSPENT LIFE IN PRISONS AND JAILS, PUT THE GRAYNESS IN HIS HAIR?
THESE ARE THE QUESTIONS I ASK MYSELF AS I SAW HIM, SITTING THERE.

THEN THE LIGHT FLICKERED BRIGHT FOR A MOMENT, AND IN THAT MOMENT
THE TRUTH WAS SHOWN,
WHERE THE OLD MAN SAT WAS A MIRROR.
THE REFLECTION I SAW WAS MY OWN.

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