Thursday, April 2, 2015


Lately I am tiring of the conquests,
Showing up and pitching in the contests.
Knowing that I'm only growing older,
And should give way to younger and bolder.
For they have no respect for ancient ways,
They spurn and deride my warm fiery blaze,
And cast aside rhymes and rhythmic phrases,
Laughing at meanings hidden in mazes.
So I will put aside my feathered quill,
And sail away into my old age chill,
Where I will find a hollowed hermit's home;
But I will never write another poem.

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