At eighteen,
  I thought that I could write my way to heaven
  I’d waltz right in, announce my name, and sit
  down on its throne

At twenty-five,
  I sat in jail to rot in isolation
  my freedom gone, my will deformed,
  but worst of all alone

At thirty-five,
  I thought that I could write my way to riches
  the screenplay bombed, all doors were closed,
  and wounds there freshly mined

At forty-eight,
  I met a man who told me I was lost
“By Looking Out The Words Won’t Come,
  Your Truth You’ll Never Find…”

By fifty-five,
  my path was set—all trails converged as one
  the entrance closed, the exit marked,
  a road of denser stone

By sixty-eight,
  all verse within, the lines reset to music
  the darkness gone, my words set free
    —all light now heaven shone

(Villanova Pennsylvania: July, 2018)