AN OLD MAN NAMED MURPHY

 

An old man named Murphy was pondering life,
His parents, his child, his dogs and his wife,
The mistakes he had made, of which there were plenty— 

His downfall began the year he turned twenty. 

 

With no working prospects and a son to be fed, 

A life filled with crime became the life he soon led. 

That year, in a rage, he had fired a gun— 

Shot down a man, began life on the run. 

 

In terror he fled from the target he’d killed,
His heart filled with fear that could never be stilled. 

But his life could have gone in a much different way— 

If he’d only turned back that significant day. 

 

The choice that he made, could not be undone,
But never again would he carry a gun.
He had nothing to say, his fists were his voice— 

This is what happened when he made the wrong choice. 

 

He traded in hope for a bottle and knife,
And buried his guilt deep in shadows and strife. 

Mangy old dogs became partner and friend—
To a life full of crime the old mutts were condemned. 

 

He lost his own son to a stranger’s last name, 

And his wife to a bottle, to sorrow and shame. 

He wrote to his parents, the letters unsent— 

The cost of his guilt, a life sadly spent 

 

With no future ahead and no past to reclaim, 

Just flickers of memories, heartache, and shame. 

He stole from the rich and preyed on the poor— 

Till the line of morality existed no more. 

 

He’d freeze at the sight of a cop on the beat. 

Living in fear, always feeling the heat
Each shadow a judge, each mirror a jury— 

With each passing year, he was filled with more fury 

 

A life being lived on the edge of a blade.
The bitter, sad victim of choices he made. 

Now sixty years later, he stood at the spot— 

Where a scar on a tree showed the tree took the shot 

 

No man had died, no one knew Murphy’s name, 

But the life he had lived bore the weight just the same. 

He stared at the scar on the trunk of the tree— 

And something inside him was suddenly free. 

 

But what of the path he had travelled along,
Of the crimes he’d committed, of the life gone so wrong. 

He fell to his knees, let the silence descend—
It was too late to change, and no time left to mend 

 

As the sun, like his life, was beginning to set, 

He longed for a day without pain and regret.
He whispered, “If only I’d known that you lived...” 

But regret was a sin he could never forgive. 

 

An old man named Murphy was pondering life, 

His parents, his child, his dogs and his wife,
The mistake he had made and from which he had run— 

A bullet in a tree, shot from his gun.