Shrouds of contemplation have come to warn
Of impending decision once again.
Twenty six summers are almost gone.
Yesterday it was only ten.
Tomorrow it will be fifty, and long
Days grow shorter as shear panic descends
Upon my small world of right and wrong,
Desolation, my destined friend,
Or so it seems unless changes are made.
Dreams remain dreams if they are not pursued.
Reality becomes a song played
So many times that it is stripped nude
Of the intended meaning, and it fades
Into the oblivion of a crude
Forgottenness 'ever there, but laid
To rest by past and future's feud.
Thoughts of wasted time grow old in my mind.
Twenty six summers near gone and the list
Of profitable ventures is signed
By the fingers of "Chances Missed".
The need to conceive a goal more aligned
With the grand purpose of success has kissed
My desires once more and has resigned
Nothing but frustration's clinched fist.
Restoration of fancies and whims
Of younger years is taking place inside
A mind gazing through the stagnant stems
Of thoughts restless to end this ride;
Restless to burst and overflow the brims
Of slumber into the realms of swelled pride;