It’s difficult to write
A life in seventeen syllables
If one is fifty it becomes necessary
To squeeze 2.9411…
Years into each syllable
Conversely one gets to fritter away
0.34 annually
Youth
There you go
Roughly thirteen years
Incorporated into one
At this rate I shall have syllables left
To carry me into my golden years
Adolescence
Four more
To detail that awkward time
When hormones and brain cells
Raged in diverse directions
Adulthood
Not to be confused with adultery
Despite the attraction
I’m left with nine
To lace a tapestry of trying
A weaving of wanting
A legacy of living
No Sweat
Youth—growing a pair
Adolescence, wasting same
Adulthood... teaching?
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