Thursday, 10 May 2018



to walk the handrails of convention,
  to inhabit habit, and never turn away,
wonder not that the days speed past,
  when you say there is no other way.

when the dues to living are paid,
 and dark days from your temples gone,
when your head soars in the clouds,
  when a light upon the abyss is shone.

  take what’s left of life and say,
this hair’s breadth intoxicates;
  so i will; i will live it my way;
and sleep upon a sun dream.

as down the wooded lanes i fall,
  down to the seas of my beach each day,
and when i return i will simply sit and write
this poem, to tell of the might,
 of how to do it, and why i did it,
and why i did it my way.

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