Life goes on. . .
even when
your brain feels drained
and your brawn does not feel strong. . .

whether at the onset of your game,
muddling through the middle,
or keening your swan song,

even at sundown of your final day
and after you are gone. . .

and it all has scrawled
a wondrous way,
wound through
wild winds
of sundry kinds
and Sundays mostly tame,

as you have risen
to occasions,
and ever moved along.

This entry was posted in Medium Length Poems, Poetry and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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