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A portrait of an old man.

He was an old man who never saw the sun.  Sure he walked outside, in his baby blue bath robe with his morning whisky, out in his Alaskan paradise.  He went there to be alone and wither in peace.  And he withered, his mind clear, in a whisky induced zen like state.  But he never did see the sun.

He would walk outside to breath in the air and appreciate being alone but he never looked past his nose to learn the truth.  Never did he seek enlightenment past the bottle and never did he meditate on his actions in life.  And so he withered in the sun without paying it any mind, like a raisin. 

His kids never visited his wife was dead.  He had no friends, abandoned those when the cold realization of mortality came to him in the form of aching joints.  And one day those joints failed him, when he fell down his porch steps.  On his back he stared at the noon day sun. And he cried the kind of tears broken old men cry, tears of defeat…and regret.