The Great Debate
When I was young
I would stare
At the ghostly face
Glaring back from the window glass
And contemplate not being,
In a mad Byronic way
Born of angst
And the passion of youth.
But now, I lie awake
In my cold half-empty bed
And the debate is calm and reasonable.
It is the very absence of passion
That is tipping the scales.
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