Whispers from the days long gone come back;
no more than a friend preserved for old age
dwindling toward the height of youth to return
a giant near the end of life— when all realities fade,
all of who you are is no match to one lost dream—
that little child chasing a kite might have flown
if not for everyone who told him he could not;
to look back and amuse yourself, pretend, and regret
a river doesn’t flow to the sea to come back,
not in one lifetime, anyway, are chances reborn—
to boast fighting the storm cowering in a cave—
victory is lame when all heroes fall and archers win;
if you don’t look life in the eye, face to face,
what good is looking in a mirror to see life moving on?
To what you owed the days with each day refreshed
they owed you nothing, already filled you with life.
Whispers from the days long gone come back
I wish I were younger to hear more than whispers.

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