There is so much anxiety in the process of getting old,
like having mountains as only horizon.
Reaching the Peak of the Thirties, as there is nowhere else you can go,
You realize the valley dives down and meets the beginning
of another mount, leading to yet another summit.
You take a breath and somehow, finally approach it
Thinking you’ll meet your deadline,
As you walk the path, anxiety builds up
One more time, on the Peak of the Fifties, nothing really happens.
After you have rambled over 6 or 7 mounts, you may start seeing
There is no such thing as a final horizon
Some people, after a only a few peaks, can make out the patterns of the path
And through the mist, they smile to the Everafter
©FJ July 2020 – All rights reserved.
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