Seventy-Five Skyes Poem by Tor Magnor Solvang

Seventy-five years have drifted by,
Under the arch of a shifting sky.
I've scribbled thousands of lines of ink,
More than I care to count or think.

I sent them out like paper planes,
Through sunny days and steady rains.
I never sought a hollow prize,
Or favor in the critics' eyes.
No heavy shelf of fame for me,
Just words set loose and flying free.

I've danced with shadows, sharp and deep,
Where secrets of the darkness sleep.
Broken bones and sudden frights,
The longest, coldest, hollow nights.
I've stumbled paths I shouldn't tread,
And narrowly escaped the dead.

Yet here I stand, still drawing breath,
A quiet win against a death.
I'm still here, still finding light,
To catch the morning, hold the night.

Whatever comes into my head,
Becomes the words that must be said.
For every stumble, every scar,
I'm grateful for just where we are.
A heart that beats, a mind to play,
And one more poem for the day.