A Dusty Old Man's Rust

In the land of greatness where dreams are broken,
Going through a life of stuff, he reflects
On the times and words never meant to be spoken.

His mystery of family, and friends vengefully moved away.
He picks what to keep and what to trash
From a life of lost hopes, half completed projects, he prays.

Cigar smoke yellows a dusty beard, his brown spit drools.
Deciding the fate of cherished junk
A box for metal, one for burning, a chest to keep his tools.

A old man of sorrow looking inward for a flicker of joy.
What was the point of the struggles?
To be alone in this rusty body with the dreams of a boy.

A life of watching other men succeed and achieve
Looking for reasons in the things kept.
For the ones gone before him, in vain to grieve.

Metal with a use long forgotten clanked to the trash
He curses the interruption of his thoughts,
Puffs his cigar back to life, his beard dusted with ash.

A Farmall H, his last companion, broken and rusted alike
No intention of starting, becomes his last chair
In the well-sorted refuse of his efforts, relieved of strife.

A motionless dust covered face in the dirt on the floor
Watching his cigar die and go cold
His petty paced shadow upon the stage is heard no more.