no longer does my mind rush on,
harried by incessant chatter,
no longer does my pen bear fruit
with workings of grey-cell matter

the highs, the lows, have softened 'n mellowed,
as fields of grain, of browns and yellows,
time goes faster and weeks race by
as two days between two Saturdays lie

the wine, maturing, regrets lost time,
the lost opportunities of me in my prime,
i long for those days when i sailed the skies,
when the sun and moon shone in my eyes

finally, finally, i'm coming to terms,
with my mortality, the diet of worms,
a finality that priceless make
the minutes 'n seconds i'm still awake