Sunset in the Afternoon

The richest man is the poorest soul I have ever met
I met him not so long before dusk on the wet road
He shook my hands though they were his that shook
The cold clamp of death did  meet him all too well

We sat for a spell that day underneath a dying sun
The last he'd seen sober no one could any longer tell
His drinks were tall and yet somehow perpetually empty
I asked him frankly how he won his seven mile stare

He laughed a mouth full of teeth discolored like the land
Though the sweet sound of humor did not meet his throat
His voice only now a whisper as he largely told his tale
It partook at the beginning of things long before lies and love

No one could see him in the earliest of his counted years
He walked through tests and time without incurring a sound
No shoe would fit his foot to make him quite an unlikely match
Yet certainly youth did afford upon him some type of shape

He grew older still and so his chin became coarse
Intentions that left his tongue were much like spittle
All of the many things he would do oh to be quite sure
Still caught in the ways of youth the boy lied to be seen

Fortune met his door as well did his beating chest thump
Though virgins make poor guests in the homes of men
He then walked quite blindly into some whore's trap
And there hetraded eternity for some musty midnight oil

That he said was the first time his drink changed color
The first sad tune his violin would play at the opera
Curious I asked what he quite meant by his song
He said its best to be bashful when asking upon the King

Determined he was to dilute his past with much fortune
The man set about to change the world without a plan
What next ensued some would call a chaotic mess
But the man before me said that all life is a quest

Days become shorter and one thinks they find a cure
Rather than looking forward they find a rear view mirror
Riches gain them much misery and less time to breathe
Instead of counting blessings they count disappearing green

These things and more this man told me from his stool
He spoke that losing everything had given him the world
That only experiences of great loss could produce a vine
And finding himself in the midst of broken places too

Having less he said than ever filled his pockets stitched
Granted him more than ever his dreamer's eye did see
And each hill and valley renewed his sense of time
The secret he offered but in a sullen daz-ed whisper

Seldom be sure about anything so to question life much
Don't waste your minutes thinking about what you don't have
Though neurosis will often cut you upon your path some
Fill a journal with anecdotes and riddles or pieces of string

There will come a time when all your rodeos find one fence
And thats okay because your shoes will long be worn
Time will have passed and eventuality will have risen to meet
But love is a funny thing that will kill you or make you whole

The sun did set as the man idled on the bar stool before me
Half of what he said later I would remember then as I do now
Bent paths crossed our direction to that tiny place in time
A crossroads where two half paths may meet a whole

And I could have swore that his eyes were greener than I
Though they drooped a little much that I could be so sure
I tried to catch his name before he stumbled off the stool
Though his old boots met the highway and he was gone