Frustrated and outdated.
My acts are getting old, I’m told.
I’m told to fold my own fowl acts
And turn them into gold.
Golden scrolls that roll up past
And open up to brand new ways.
Days to come, I still may fray,
But carry on I must.
I would trade today for days
Which open up to blooms.
Blooms of new, and fumigating,
nothing but the truth and beaut.