We're Gone

Old people drift on
Surfboards made of metal
And contorted into designs
We can neither
Fathom nor make work.
I'm sat here in a wheelchair -
An 86-year-old man
And counting my blessings
By god, I am.
I'll reach o'er to you
When I've finished
Replaying the reel of life
Backwards thru time,
When I was cool,
or someone
Or anyone.
Hold my hand
As I travel
And you travel too
And travel long.
One, two, three,
We're gone.