There’s nothing you can do about the sores on your spine.
Growth spurts once hurt during youthful days gone by.
But now there’s dizziness in the morning.
And nights of tile for pillows, wondering
How soon sleep can turn to death.
You now face grim realizations;
So have a seat and catch your breath.
One in a million-
If they’re lucky- will drink of a sweet wine
Before a tired draught weighs down the dozing eIe.
You may get to be that happy one,
Or it may wind up you won’t.
But if you’re counting on a miracle,
Men trace the lines of cloud folds
With brushstrokes slight as flesh,
Yet draw no closer to the true shape.
We just try to do our best.