Old is when era flies
And then flits home apologetically.
Old is when storm of self subsides
And regret digs holes in your heart.
And is there any balm?
Is there respite from real,
From the shreds of
Soul's fabric torn from
And show of
"What I'll be
When I grow up"?
And what I will have been
When I've grown old?
The answer is in the question
Of life's indigestion
Of the overmuch
Of self - indulgent hope,
Without reflection of
The unresolved
Enigma of existence
And its relationship to God -
The unfathomable
Incomprehensible
Perhaps, reprehensible
Crux.
And thus, a case for prayer -
And a modicum, if possible
Of faith.
Addie W. Williams
5/10/1982
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Chanti
Eileen