Twenty Five And Nothing
Shrouds of contemplation have come to warn
by Brett Randall Towery
Of impending decision once again.
Twenty six summers are almost gone.
Yesterday it was only ten.
Tomorrow it will be fifty, and long
Days grow shorter as shear panic descends
Upon my small world of right and wrong,
Desolation, my destined friend,
Or so it seems unless changes are made.
Dreams remain dreams if they are not pursued.
Reality becomes a song played
So many times that it is stripped nude
Of the intended meaning, and it fades
Into the oblivion of a crude
Forgottenness 'ever there, but laid
To rest by past and future's feud.
Thoughts of wasted time grow old in my mind.
Twenty six summers near gone and the list
Of profitable ventures is signed
By the fingers of "Chances Missed".
The need to conceive a goal more aligned
With the grand purpose of success has kissed
My desires once more and has resigned
Nothing but frustration's clinched fist.
Restoration of fancies and whims
Of younger years is taking place inside
A mind gazing through the stagnant stems
Of thoughts restless to end this ride;
Restless to burst and overflow the brims
Of slumber into the realms of swelled pride;
Into the world of fine satin trims
And power a long time denied.
Ideas of others who fought and fell
And living dreams of those who will withstand
The multitude of desires have dwelled
In many hopes of hungry hands.
They exist in motives of mine as well,
But elude obligation's harsh demands.
Days grow short, as only time will tell
Of riches or of untried plans.