Work In Progress

Old man going down,
Bullet hole ripped through his soul;
Younger days they stay behind,
Up in the sky,
It's looking down,
The all seeing eye.
Rusty frustrations have long plagued
The thoughts of a young man aged;
Scars are a part of the game-
Reliving them part of the shame
Of a life too well lived.
The old man was dead before he died,
And lives he still does,
But way past his shelf life,
No longer fresh, viable still;
Take a taste, curse the fates,
Spit him out against the ground-
What a waste. As he goes down,
There is nothing to grasp,
History's stamp unattached,
Offers nothing but memories,
They live but are they real?
The wound is freshly drilled,
God's drive by kill thrill,
Is it victory just to survive?
It takes skill to be alive;
But His misses live forever,
In the darkest parts, not heaven.