Catalina's Milky Way Dreams(c) Re- Written 2024 - By The Depressed Poet, Doc Dalton
Shooting Stars and fast moving CarsRumble through the roads of my mindTick-e-ty Tock, the old sounds of the clockSay's it's almost a quarter past nine
The moons surely rising, the stars are a glidingAnd Mr. Sandman is ready to roamHurry off to bed and put your pillow under your headHe might just be visiting you tonight at homeDrifting off to sleep is such a wonderful featAdventures you'll enjoy on your ownMaking new friends on a journey to no endA secrete life that is yours all aloneDon't be afraid of those gobble lee goo'sOr those pirates drifting to sea on their boatsThere's no need to worry there just in your dreamsLike rainbow clouds and cotton candy floatsOh that sky's full of colors of make believe wondersExciting every step of the wayCan't you let me stay for just a little bit longerPlease, don't take my Dreams a wayTo see this through a child's eyesOn the path to where stars brightly beamThrough a different world of twist and twirlsWon't you come to my Milky Way DreamsWe could have so much funUnder an ice cream sun and laugh our time awaySing some M & M songs the whole day longUntil we awake to brand new day
Pluto say's hey kiddo don't get out of bedAs Snakel Puss laughs and says, ah it's OKKKKKKKKPopeye yell's, were gone in a minute after I eat me spinachPoo say's all aboard my Banana Split SleighOh that Sky's full of colors of make believe wondersExciting every step of the wayCan't you let me stay for just a little bit longerWorry not Catalina, we won't take your Dreams a way
To see this through a child's eyesOn the path to where stars brightly beamThrough a different world of twist and twirlsWon't you come to my Milky Way Dreams
Catalina say's, please come join me, on my Milky Way Dreams
The old pickup truck sat alone beneath a sky full of stars.
The gravel road that led to Miller's Creek hadn't seen much traffic in years, and that was exactly why he chose it. Nobody would come looking. Nobody would hear the shot.
At least that's what he told himself.
The old man sat on the tailgate staring across the moonlit field. A bottle of whiskey rested beside him. In one hand he held a small glass. In the other was a worn .22 revolver that had followed him through most of his life.
His hands trembled. Not from fear. From exhaustion. Seventy-two years of living can put a lot of miles on a man. Especially when much of that life has been spent carrying hurts nobody else could see. He thought about all the disappointments. The dreams that never happened. The people who left. The mistakes that couldn't be taken back. The years that seemed to disappear faster than smoke drifting from a campfire.
For a long time he simply stared into the darkness. Then he folded his hands. "Lord," he whispered, "I don't know how much farther this old soul can go." The words barely escaped his lips. A tear rolled down his weathered face. He wasn't angry anymore. He wasn't even asking for a miracle. He just wanted peace. The kind of peace that had escaped him for far too long. He poured himself a shot of whiskey and stared at the revolver lying beside him. A simple prayer. A shot of whiskey. And his .22. That was all that remained of the plan.
The night grew quiet. So quiet he could hear the wind moving through the tall grass. And then something unexpected happened. Nothing.No booming voice from Heaven. No angel standing in the field. No flash of light. Just silence. Yet somehow the silence felt different. Comforting. Gentle. Almost as if someone was sitting beside him.
He looked toward the horizon where the first hint of dawn was beginning to appear. For the first time in years, he noticed how beautiful it was. The colors. The stillness. The promise of another day. Suddenly he remembered things he had forgotten. His daughter's laugh. His grandson's smile. The smell of fresh coffee in the morning. An old dog that used to greet him at the door. The feeling of being loved even when he didn't believe he deserved it. The old man lowered his head. Another tear fell. This time it wasn't from despair. It was gratitude. The pain hadn't disappeared. The problems were still waiting for him. Life was still hard. But something inside him had changed.
Hope had quietly walked back into the room. He picked up the revolver and slowly unloaded it. One bullet at a time. Then he set it down. The whiskey remained untouched. The sun continued to rise. And for the first time in a very long while, the old man smiled. He climbed into his truck and started the engine. As he drove home, he realized something important. God hadn't changed his circumstances that night. God had changed his direction. Sometimes salvation doesn't arrive as a miracle. Sometimes it arrives as one more sunrise. One more prayer. One more reason to stay. And sometimes, that's enough. Because the story isn't over until God says it's over
The gravel road that led to Miller's Creek hadn't seen much traffic in years, and that was exactly why he chose it. Nobody would come looking. Nobody would hear the shot.
At least that's what he told himself.
The old man sat on the tailgate staring across the moonlit field. A bottle of whiskey rested beside him. In one hand he held a small glass. In the other was a worn .22 revolver that had followed him through most of his life.
His hands trembled. Not from fear. From exhaustion. Seventy-two years of living can put a lot of miles on a man. Especially when much of that life has been spent carrying hurts nobody else could see. He thought about all the disappointments. The dreams that never happened. The people who left. The mistakes that couldn't be taken back. The years that seemed to disappear faster than smoke drifting from a campfire.
For a long time he simply stared into the darkness. Then he folded his hands. "Lord," he whispered, "I don't know how much farther this old soul can go." The words barely escaped his lips. A tear rolled down his weathered face. He wasn't angry anymore. He wasn't even asking for a miracle. He just wanted peace. The kind of peace that had escaped him for far too long. He poured himself a shot of whiskey and stared at the revolver lying beside him. A simple prayer. A shot of whiskey. And his .22. That was all that remained of the plan.
The night grew quiet. So quiet he could hear the wind moving through the tall grass. And then something unexpected happened. Nothing.No booming voice from Heaven. No angel standing in the field. No flash of light. Just silence. Yet somehow the silence felt different. Comforting. Gentle. Almost as if someone was sitting beside him.
He looked toward the horizon where the first hint of dawn was beginning to appear. For the first time in years, he noticed how beautiful it was. The colors. The stillness. The promise of another day. Suddenly he remembered things he had forgotten. His daughter's laugh. His grandson's smile. The smell of fresh coffee in the morning. An old dog that used to greet him at the door. The feeling of being loved even when he didn't believe he deserved it. The old man lowered his head. Another tear fell. This time it wasn't from despair. It was gratitude. The pain hadn't disappeared. The problems were still waiting for him. Life was still hard. But something inside him had changed.
Hope had quietly walked back into the room. He picked up the revolver and slowly unloaded it. One bullet at a time. Then he set it down. The whiskey remained untouched. The sun continued to rise. And for the first time in a very long while, the old man smiled. He climbed into his truck and started the engine. As he drove home, he realized something important. God hadn't changed his circumstances that night. God had changed his direction. Sometimes salvation doesn't arrive as a miracle. Sometimes it arrives as one more sunrise. One more prayer. One more reason to stay. And sometimes, that's enough. Because the story isn't over until God says it's over
