Waiting for the Toll

Waiting for the Toll

I've entered my final year.
Truth be told I'm barely here.
I'm a roamer on my last leg.
A pre-lit powder keg.

I met a man down at the bar.
He shared the stories of his scar.
As though a child sharing tales,
Of kindoms far and holy grails.

"I'm just waiting for the toll,"
I said, "the final bell to sound.
A bargain for the weary soul,
On consegrated ground."

He said age suits me like fine wine.
That I must hear that all the time.
He swooned within his drunken haze,
Abysmal notes of praise.

I stressed to him I couldn't stay.
Alert the bells I'm on my way.
I hear the angels crystal clear,
Honoring my final year.

"I'm just waiting for the toll,"
I said, "the final bell to sound.
A bargain for the weary soul,
On consegrated ground."