The brush strokes of the passing day
Paint his life in shades of grey
The clock it ticks each fading hour
As his life withers like a dying flower
A road less travelled lies ahead
Finding a place to rest his head
The old brown moss, the limestone comb
The wooded glen where wild cats roam
The final doorway to his life appears
Colours saturate the passing years
Red of anger and deep blue pervade
Under the bent willow he’ll find his shade
No Time to Think 