Not for him was there ever any waiting for that wisest of all counselors. The old gray head was always a fool, and could never wait for anything.
Not for him at the end of days will grief do its work now, and bring its gift.
Not for him will loss mean standing alone for once, in command of himself. Only now, after all these years, is it plain that he is not a man in full.
It teaches all things as it grows old, but not to this old goat. He changes women like a pair of too tight pants, like a bull answering the rut before the ashes have even grown cold. Like an ever rolling stream, it has born her away. She flies, forgotten, as a dream dies at the op'ning day.
Some of him is passed on because of you, because you were the same way once, and made the same mistakes. You may yet learn from yours, but he will never really know he made any.
It is said that the truth is the kindest thing we can give another in the end, but it is a pearl as surely trampled on by a certain sort as it is by others redeemed, and treasured, in time.
