Wednesday, October 20, 2021

The Poet at Thirty-Five

In my first decade, I ran about
from place to place, hollering
like a wild ape, heedless of the 
cares of those of advanced
age.

In my second decade, I was forced
to face difficult truths, only, 
not yet a man, I suffered, for I could 
not understand.

In my third decade, I continued
in my heedless ways, only this time
I came to know the meaning of
pain.

Stupid, I suffered greatly until
my fourth decade, and by then,
I could barely stand on my own
two feet.

Arched of back, tired-eyed,
I’m now resigned to a life
of learning and contented
dormancy.

Confident in my song, with 
enough money to survive,
what need have I to chase
fortune and fame?

Love seems a better thing
to hope for, anyway.
And even that, now I know
I can find by simply looking out
among the green grass
and whispering trees
or up at the stars and the moon,
listen to the muse and write
a rhyme, feel the presence
of God and be at peace.

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