On an old rickety chair
The old man sits again
Again his tea breathes
In the dead, dusty room
The clock seems to know
His bed shudders with him
His solitary companions
In the dark, dreary room
A broken portrait of his son
Sits over the elevated shelf
The glass will cut you, they say
In your frail, fragile skin
He watches his hands shake
Tears spill, over flowing the cup
Every tea tastes a bit salty
In the desolate, deserted room
He sits there, watching
The clock ticks ever slower
A phone sits unringing
In his deaf, defeated room