Rocking Chair

Maybe i got it wrong.
Someone tell me please.
After the songs are sung
and the days end does a rockgod long for a view of a flickering fire from a rocking chair.

Could Brian or Roger,
yielder of axe and stick,
be happy to rock back and forth
reading a book while the
flames reminded them how hot they were when they were young.

Or would they like to find
rockers like themselves
and find a few juveniles,
some real ne’er do wells.
Teach them the tricks of the trade.
The lure of the stage when the
people listened to every sound they made.
The stage is an unrelenting wench,
it takes time away from loved ones.
Now the same time weighs heavily on their hands and shows on their fingers.
Ends ache where arthritis lingers.
Brian’s hands are still fine and elegant.
Just old and bent from holding Red too long.  He misses her shape in his arms.

The hum of her strings speaking to him memories of long ago. He would so love to hold her and play a riff so wild and free it would make all the girls look at him hungrily.

Roger can’t jump on the drums anymore.
It is all he can do to rub his back when it gets sore.
He remembers happier times when beer splashed on the drum.

How he loved hitting  his beats while John strummed.

When all is said and done,
they had a fantastic time
when they were rock gods,
when they were princes of the universe.
When they were young.

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