Why when decreed at last we come of age
when there is less in front than there is passed,
do grasping hands pause to turn a sullen page
afraid the rising dawn will be the last?
Confounded eyes reflect hues of colour lost
bent ever downward to ponder weary feet,
shuffling a path through a reproachful mist;
a raging storm to sink a youthful fleet.
Think not of age as a cruel brigands curse
raise your eyes, look upon horizons sky
and recall your life’s poem verse by verse;
colours beyond the mist of a fading eye.
Precious life not made bitter by damaged pride,
but sweeter lived through the child inside.
All Writing.Com images are copyrighted and may not be copied / modified in any way. All other brand names & trademarks are owned by their respective companies.
Generated in 0.08 seconds at 7:12pm on Nov 23, 2024 via server WEBX2.