Fear, has worn thin:
And misinformation, therein.

The wall of slate,
Once thought too high -
To gaze beyond;
As all things, dies.

I am twenty years old today.
I know nothing.
I am thirty years old today.  
I know a bit, but not what I’m doing.

I am forty years old today.
What little I thought I knew… turns out it was wrong.
I am fifty years old today.
I know more than you sonny.

I am sixty years old today.
I’m tired of knowing.
I am seventy years old today.
I never appreciated people.

I fell out of the night
And in to the day.
Got up from the morning,
Struggled into the bathroom of afternoon.
Stared into the mirror of mid-day gone,
And shuffled down the stairwell into evening.

As I found a seat amidst the lonely aisles,

Settled into worry,
A look at the clock,
No sooner to realise,
I had fallen back into the night.

As I age,
I grow more and more convinced
That the human experience is little more,
Than a narrative of questions.
Regardless...
Of whether or not there is indeed a narrative,
Or if indeed there are any answers.

I will not die regretful,
Nor dissatisfied,
For I raced against the millions
To call this life my prize.

Let this poem take you
Back a while.
To a snow stabbed track,
Along stretching road.
Past a field of barbs,
Herding starving souls.

A great wall of slate.
Too tall, too wide -
To climb, to strafe:

A firm divide.

A shuffle of breath,
Fractured coughs,
A laugh or two,

All brains turned off.