A Fruitless Lament
What could have been,
Is a fruitless lament.
Because what one has,
Is a daily birthday present.
Life is short,
One hundred at best,
So greet each day,
As if you are nature’s guest.
Life and loves come,
Then they are gone.
Life’s felicity,
Is in the love we are fortunate to spawn.
Copyright © Steve Crismond | Year Posted 2015
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