Bright Chapeau
Life is a heavy hat,
we wear it, and we learn to bear it,
as we age the debris grows,
bright chapeau that once was trimmed with flowers
attains a brim of dirty crows, that peck and eat our dreams,
crap filthy ropes and jump upon the battered crown
weighing down upon our ancient heads,
yet somewhere underneath the mess, we smile
warriors all, those of us who tread the long and weary miles,
for we have hope, that small and shrunken ghost
companion of our youthful days
she follows as we turn each corner
not quite the cheerful girl she used to be
but clinging on,
the wraith of expectation
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