poem of reflection

What makes a good man

isnt the things he owned

its the skills he honed

stories he told

of friends he shared and

guilt he wore

making tents of sticks

adventuring for the kicks

to see what beyond his humble abode

its the beauty of life so to speak

death and creation made bleak by age

a man can look back and think of the times

when what was for dinner was he worsted of his blights  

and sit back hoping that that some day things might come back

to the times where everything felt just right