Do Not Rest On The Laurels Of Your Head Poem by RIC BASTASA

we get old
the laurels mean no more
they become irritants
to the lines in our forehead
we finally let go
of these decors
we take the chances of
negating fame
embracing the privacy
of the walk
beside the hills
feeling the stones on our bare feet
touching the winds
and listening to its roars
wading to the waters
getting wet
and then take the much missed
plunge

we wish we are gone somewhere
to places
where no one finds us
where we look at no shadows
we stare
at the sunset
and then find the silence of
the coming darkness

perhaps the moon shall be full
perhaps the stars will gather in magnificence

perhaps we can love again
loneliness like the grass that we cannot uproot
amidst the daisies
they become part of us
they become us
in love and tolerance