With every strand of falling lock
With every steppin’ stone,
all the hours spent not heaven-sent.
One second consumed by things of..
regret…trite though it may be…
steal the dreams by day,
can blur the scene that frames the way.
Still life with disarray.
Glad tidings of happy old age.
All just rehearsal for the grand stage.
Who cares about electric blue star-dust,
luminaries with cashmere mittens,
moon beam hippies?
Perhaps, those who careless about the ages…
Post beatnik sages.