I protest growing older ... You
You old scathing hand of time!
Slap me in the face,
to awaken reality
of my own mortality.
Just when the brass ring
is within arms reach ... suddenly
... withdrawn.
Laugh it off!
One half century is left beyond my reach,
to read novel and portent, so to speak.
An epic tale.
The mask worn is no more than most,
nonetheless, burden weighs heavy on my brow.
What a long road we journey;
when we travail down rocky paths
or ascend high peaks of Everest,
while destinations are posted,
to follow well trodden routes.
But triumph
my youth of yesterday,
is in the putting, not the trophies
that now gather dust.
My protest dwells only on the shortness of day,
NOT
in the loss of the game.