Grandfather's Stories

Looking down at grandfather, in his rickety rocking throne,

His eyes glisten and tell stories that his mind can no longer recall.

Those eyes speak of unattainable hopes and dreams deferred,

And golden grandfather stories that never cease to enthrall.

Grandfather's stories are rambling and raw.

As he jabbers on about vintage adventures and olden eras,

The syrupy sweet life of a king once lived some time ago

Imprints in me a forever sense of capability that I forever cherish.

With waving, wrinkled hands and wispy, white hair the stories all animate,

And if one ever told of that rickety rocking throne creaking a louder sound,

With its widdled, wooden arms and seat sagged with a heavy load,

I would be the first to cast a doubt.

Now, as grandfather nears his finale and his exhausted eyelids begin to droop,

The enthusiasm and vigor that once illuminated the room altogether drains. 

Golden stories of former hopes and dreams dry up due to lack of time and oppurtunity,

Aspirtaions of a future once so attainable now prove to be unattained.

I shake grandfather's worked, weary hand and thank him for the golden time,

And he lays to rest the stories with a nod and his face now hard as stone,

I feel inside of me the built up ambitions of my grandfather, almost about to explode;

I often gain such powerful things from the man sitting in a rickety rocking throne.