To live ‘as if each day might be the last’,
Fridge magnet cliché of the happy past,
Now I am 95 and living still,
In aimlessness and half arsed lack of will.
Complacent certainty of life is dull,
Nascent fear of immortality catalyst
To seeking what is best.
Now I am old
I’m speaking with what should be wisdom’s weight:
Gladly shouldered burden of experience. But
Sadly I repeat acquired ideas
I picked up cheaply, tawdry, second hand.
For certainty of death’s not mine. I stand
As strongly now as I did in my youth,
And see no end in sight to guide. The truth
Is self-indulgence leads to mediocrity,
The dreadful curse of guaranteed longevity
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