Writers Lounge

There rests an old man
By him a bottle of Scotch on his right
A bag of tales on his left
To share with the young before his grave

Days and weeks and months pass
With no energetic life in sight
What could've happened
He wonders in curiosity -

Just before a selfish answer
There he sees a life in sight
Quietly he hides the bottle
Seeking to be an aged example

But disappointment awaited his view
As the figure headed closer
A seasoned life it was
Not really what he had expected

In emotional agony he asked,
"My pear,
Where lies the fat caterpillars?
I possess a lubricate of tales,
To ease their way in metamorphosis."

-"On the other side
With less greener grass,
Drowning their sorrows in Scotch
Moaning about how the process
Lacks butterfly instructions."

"Oh but here I await,
With a lifelong manuscript
Unfolding our cocooning struggles
And only seeks their era for publication."