An old man enslaved. Chained, to his will. He champed the cigar, and considered the till.
He chewed that old stogy, and his mind melded in a falling, twilight sky.
An unbelievable shade of blue it was; and it is true, there can be no doubt, absolute. He'd never seen nothin' like it, in all his years beneath them mountains he always held, so dear and close to his still beating (thank God), heart.
It was such a pale blue. It mimicked his eyes, and a tear almost came, but then came to subside.
Fireflies flickered against this pale, beaten sky, and his lantern, it shimmered, in rhythm to an oncoming, dark sky.
He knew there'd be stars, later that night, and they too would flicker, and rule the dark sky. They surely would live longer than these seasonal flies, but somehow they were kin, and their existence...in line?
But in that moment between, when it's neither darkness or light, the old man took repose, and considered his plight.
He was abandoning, in sort, but grasping in another. While his life had been through changes, he'd never quite given up - even through changes there was not a quitting, but only a shifting; like a chain on a sprocket to a tearing, new high.
This change was no doubt of monumental import; but somehow he took refuge in knowing the sort.
On Forest Hill he did love, he built and he toiled. He had his own place, and he sewed fertile soil.
One thing was for certain in his dubious mind; here he would live, and here he would die.
This circle of life, what a grand scheme it is...it yields perfect habit, of that, there can be no pretense.
So the old man did puff another deep drag, and ponder his existence in this fairytale wag.
What a beautiful life it is, against this deep, blue-green hue; another day just shy of heaven on this forested hill, this shelter from life's cruel skew, with an explosively simple, and monumentally incredulous, serene, sweet view!
He gasped one last evening gasp as his soul's eyes did peer, upon the heart of the Lord in a splendor he so deeply revered.
And with that, he turned in, awaiting the fray, for the changes that come in yet another, new day.