The little drum
The distant drum that takes it all
The reason for the endless fall
Syncopated in the beat
The little drum is not complete
Unrhythmic in its infancy
Applying rules with stringency
As quibbles weaken wit
Devolves to sneak and snit
In that case, the drumming race
Becomes a thing of stone, not lace
Cracks appearing everywhere
The stunted pause to stop and stare
Confusion reigns in all
Leaving painful pall
I've striven so to show
The rhythm in the row
To take apart that which devolves
To rip to shreds with grim resolves
Always knowing that
'Tis not for me I bat
Nor you, as time goes on
No rhythm in this dawn
That does not make this life unworthy
Old age sucks. I am finding acceptance an on and off again affair. Ah, well, still waiting for our Humanity to show up. I might try to write something uplifting next and I hope you reread this, once you've read the rhoem.
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