I Am Too Old 47
47.
Once the fine rocking artist
Look outward for the same wavelength
And forget its name.
Was it that my hands became dry
Or I wish for the soft skin of youth
Would shine on my worn loniliness
Do my possibilities now need justification?
Because my fancy is a maligned lack of reason,
A twisted comfort to my old fixed point.
Copyright © Autumn Ehrhardt | Year Posted 2012
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