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Jan 2017
when I turned eighteen
sadness filled my cups,
for carefree was now gone,
laying side by side
with all my companion figurines,
off to rest in a boy's toy chest
in a backyard cemetery hid,
certainty assured
all that I was, so far,
all that I will be,
uncalming coming forevermore,
unwilling borne upon
the newly time redesigned,
heavy load shoulders of adult responsibility

when I turned thirty,
sadder now by the means and meaning of accumulation,
having thrice now measured the length of a stick of life,
denominated as a decade,
wiser now that the children underfoot,
certainty assured,
would have to pay
bills of lading for cargoes,
not of their own choosing,
indeed, selected unwisely,
by men like me, and men before,
all too old or too gone,
to be prosecuted now for the
short sightedness of reckless timidity

when I turned fifty,
the shoulders slightly stooped and gently curved,
my gait and pace slowed by weight,
pockets laden with undesired memories,
unfinished arguments,
dreams that morphed and morted into
failed schemes that with the
certainty assured,
the tallied ache of known losses
will always weigh greater
than the
unknown of opportune

now with seventy,
so near, onrushing to the sounds
of old men and their noisy excuses
of babbling, ironical,
eerie similar to the parental smiling hushing
of a newborn's squeaking,
a youthful brook,
happily to an open sea arushing,
hurrying in the fullness of innocence to
it's demise

the line of sight to the horizon,
far shorter now than ere before,
with greater certainty assured,
that near my god than thee,
my sadness daren't hope to dissipate, nor lift
as once it did,
an early morn mist rising off the river, 
freshly sun burnished, then miracle banished,
sacrificing itself as a hopeful oracle of a new born day

recurring haunted words
like rest, best and tried,
the only legacy remaining to gift,
but one thing yet measures a comforts,
a red cross blanket round the shoulders thrown that with
certainty assured,
the marvy joy of life all in,
be our given right to err and learn wisdom at our own pace

so here I freely confess
with wry, sly smile that we

proved ourselves to be
victims of our unintended tendencies,
successful in being

**all too human
Jan. 11, 2016
Nat Lipstadt
Written by
Nat Lipstadt  M/nyc
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