Watching Myself Grow Old

It lies beneath the interred
spirit of a man, when
death is close at hand.
I sense it manifest within
that restive, intermitent spark
that had seemed to be no more,
now deterring my eternal rest.

But I have a selling job to do.
No longer may I tender forth
my charms and hope it is enough; 
a stroll upon the evening air
builds not at all upon enlightenment.
No, I am the customer and most susceptible
to blandishments much greater than
the restive moments I may find
in play and fortune that I win.

All that is expendable
when I can revel in the healing truth,
there along the well-worn path
of thought. There is light
to challenge myself again,
and no one dares protest.

It's all I have, of course.
What feeds me is the plenitude
of fullness in the empty places
answering my call.  Senses are
irrelevant.  I need watch no more.
I seek instead the sea cliffs
where echoes of the lost
may catch the wind, seed the earth,
and dissipate.
 
There is my reward, and earth
is the richer for it.
In gratitude, I hear them still!
Their cries are flight released,
but age and death are meaningless.
The cycle is complete,
             ~

Reviews

[Dean]

your thoughts are precious--not good for my ego, but lovely to me anyway. How can I thank you?

[Linda Marie Van Tassell]

Your thoughts are a wonder to behold. While we share the same journey, the words with which you choose to express it always impress. Your echoes are never lost. They catch the waves, flood the mind, and pool into one's being.

[Dean]

please see above