whatever age you are.

Each merits
its own joy
and pain;

its crawls,
its steps,
its leaps
its ease
its strain. . .

At each natural pinnacle
and erected fortress turret,
a different mode
and mood
you move to assume,

whereby you reach
a different kind of plain,
and morph
from your special universal stuff
into a different kind of star.

You lose,
each year,
the layers of being
unneeded by a stronger core
you build
the tiers of experience
and play upon
a different kind of instrument
upon different kind of stage–
the real congeals, solidifies and concentrates,
you shed the fake,

you grow into a different kind of sage,
a different iteration
of the same One
who was begun
with your day one,
your incarnation,

and with each year,
it gets more clear
how well you fit
with all that is,
and how you’ve felt
and gradually
and magically developed
the treasures deep
inside your soul,
and traveled
so unfathomably far.

This entry was posted in Poetic Musing (Longer Poems), Poetry and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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