You tilt backwards in your chair,
Head thrown back, unaware
Of your peril, and laughing.

You turn pages, sip sweet tea
And prove ability
To replace sleep with reading.

As Beethoven’s Seventh plays,
In beauty and pain’s maze,
Your old soul is transforming.

On a mountain top you stand,
So tall, crowned with life and
Sceptered with all life’s meaning.

You jealously guard your space
But still scan each new face,
Half-hopefully and searching.

Or perhaps it’s only me



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