From the archives of his mind buried in the folds of the frontal lobe,
On the backburner of his thought processes, located on a slow cook stove.
Was the song he composed to a love so dear, gone forever, never to be seen again, I fear.
It had been a love of his young life, then the war interrupted his romance,
He was rushed to the front and they never had their last dance.
The war was brutal and he came back rough and off beam,
He was back only a day and in a bar there was a murder, a horror scene.
And before he knew it the prison walls were his home and he lost sight of his old love.
Thirty years and finally pardoned, he went back to the world he knew little of.
Old now, withered and wrinkled, an old man in a rocking chair,
In an old age home alone, no hopes, no brightness there,
And they placed him on a balcony with an old lady with a hat,
She also in a wheel chair and a blank stare, a harsh issue and fact.
They died that day within ten feet of each other,
Two old to remember their love, their minds filled with clutter.
They had no relatives to speak of and buried in a potter’s grave,
No memory of their love remains, nothing of them saved.
We come, we go, some go fast and some go slow.
But in the ocean of life and the tides that rule our direction on the waves,
We bump into each other and for that moment we are saved,
And then time comes and leaves and we are adrift again on the sea,
And all that is left on our lips is remember me, remember me!