A
week away from writing lines that rhyme
And
bounce along – ta-dum, ta dum – the
feet
Of "Man
at Rest," retired, tan, with time
Enough
to do the things he wants, to meet
The
challenge, beat the clock, and still fulfill
His
fondest dream, that is, a year of verse.
And
yet a week slipped by, the hours until
The
end of time slipped by. A man can curse
His
own mortality and yet not stir,
Not
move from off his chair, inertia's pull
Like
weights upon his soul. He thinks of
her,
The
one who brought his cup so close to full,
He
thought he would not need again to pour.
She
deserves more than this. She deserves
more.
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