It seems to get harder
To find the right words.
The older I get,
The more my silver tongue corrodes.
I remember days,
Not so long ago,
When I would write anthems,
When I would weave legends of intrigue
And my words would steady
The hopeless,
And help them to fight on.
But I've realized,
I saw only what I wanted to.
I saw an empty library as a battlefield,
And the scattered patrons as soldiers.
I saw myself as an Angel,
When I was nothing but delusional.
My words have touched but a few,
And made no difference.
My legacy is nonexistent.
My words worth only their weight
In well wishes.
Completely worthless.