Brett Randall Towery
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Twenty Five And Nothing
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, ...