He started to write once.
A prompt 'Birthday, Christmas, socks I don't miss.
What do you even feel from a mistletoe kiss?'

No poem formed as time escaped him.
No inspiration arrived to complete it.
The prompt remained a prompt,
a point in time to show his arrogance.
He felt too great for the family he had.

As time escapes,
Friends drift
Skin sags
Days drag
Fun has gone.

His family. Gone.

In old age the poem is finished.

'Birthday, Christmas, socks I don't miss.
What do you even feel from a mistletoe kiss?
I'd give anything
to go back to this.'