the stars, the sea, and sleep.

Friday, September 25, 2009


I etch hours into the bower
That is this youthful mind,
Taking too much youthful time
Well spent hell-bent on being it all.
Pushing forty out of none,
There's work
There's play
There's sleep,
Choose one.
The moment I had left
I promised for the best.
But when it came to hit,
There's nothing in me left.

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