103 First Floor West Poem by L MILTON HANKINS

He thinks of dreams he often dreamed
In early morn, while yet it seemed
The young looked up to him with searching eyes
As deep and distant as the western skies,
He weighs again the words he wished to say
Long before the shadows stole his day
And robbed him of the chance to prove
Experience, purloined his will to move
While tender light mounted waiting sky
And birthed small feats to pile high
At last.He felt his soul pressing down
And shaken to the bowels of barren ground
With sobs and sounds of folly fearing
Ahead the dusk so fast appearing;
No one seeks his wizened face again,
But he still swears the time was best
Before he reached the final crest.