Open are his eyes, yet idle
His bones frail, his hair no more
Eighty-five years is quite a while
When each breath becomes a chore
Drearily he sweeps over the room
And clasps his hands, pale as the moon

A mothball scent overtakes the air
Dust bunnies mingle with baseboards
The floor lamp has no light to bear
Life is something this bed can't afford
A fragmented mirror amplifies his reality
The struggling spirit of an opaque entity

Wading deeper into ultimacy
A chirping bird catches his attention
And encourages a novel buoyancy
Challenging his very composition
His eyelids slide to a steady close
Retiring to an eternal dose

Sunlight dawning, birds serenading
The man shields his vibrant eyes
Eighty-five equalizes nothing
When everything is finalized
An indefinite divinity compels him forward
Like a beauteous hymn never before heard

His demons are terminated
His agony no more
A heavenly grace rejuvenated
Then He speaks to his core
"You need not worry nor fear
I'll take it from here."