It was a fear of failing, forced to face
the truth so blithely drown by hiding dreams
in days and tossing nights that held my place
in time, banality, or so, it seemed.
Always the thought was there: to write, release
the only thing I owned uniquely mine;
my take, but excuses would never cease
to take their toll; depleting pride and time.
But age at last with fingers raised to take
a pulse along my neck with icy tips
on wrinkled skin did startle me awake;
so now, alone for hours with moving lips,
I sit composing verse and smile and fret
and curse, but never do I feel regret.