Gordon W. Belling

LIFE OF AN ANGEL

His eyes had fire of a rebel;
He rode with a hells angels pack,
His hand was hard on the throttle,
When he was a youngster way back.

But he was called for the fighting,
And sent to the Vietnam shore,
Where he was caught in the conflict,
Becoming a victim of war.

In later years he is lonely,
The world just forgets about him,
He lives alone in a humpy,
In bushland away from the din.

His hand is holding a bottle,
He drinks as the time passes by;
He sits sometimes on his Harley,
And dreams as he heavily sighs.

His eyes see nothing but darkness,
The bike is a rusty old hack.
There hangs a battered old helmet,
Right next to his leathery blacks.

But though he is frail and dying,
Awaiting the freedom he’d like,
He hopes of joining the angels,
Again to be riding his bike…