shines like fire
in the front of my mind.
With a hundred thousand memories
piled beneath me
a mountain of Past
teachers of life
their heavy price extracted
paid in full
with blood and tears
thousands of nights
spent in remembering
and now,
I hold another kind of degree
and it pays another kind of wage..

The nice guy, he may finish last
but he's been running a different race.

Threescore and ten is an average, not a promise, and all too easy to take for granted.  
The years pass, not with the ticking of the clock, but with the silent hissing of sand through the center of an hourglass.  
Their passage is felt more than heard; their piling at the bottom a slow and subtle thing.
The fighter can grasp all he wants.  
He will never hold it all.  
In that fight, time is always the winner, and the grave always receives the trophy.

Winding and throwing
A blow like summer thunder,
He misses the mark

When I am an old man I want to be a gentleman,
with perfect manners, sound and articulate speech,
and refined opinions founded on solid, balanced judgment.

To be revered would be well, but I'll settle for respected;
people are more apt to overlook your faults,
and keep their expectations of you more reasonable.

I would possess at least half the strength of my youth,
both in body and in mind,
and twice the faith, never staggering at the promise.

I would be as steadfast in my convictions as I was at twenty,
but with a lifetime of wisdom to back up the zeal;
I would be a voice of both faith and reason.

I would be mindful of the finish line ahead of me,
and would be certain to possess such a rapport with my Maker
as to anticipate, and not dread, what lay beyond.