Time seems to be running out.
Want to say a lot; don't know why;
But words are reluctant to come forth;
Mind struggling to form an interesting story.

Want to tell my story, but then who cares?
Sordid details of one's life; the ups and downs;
Everyone has them! Why then write your own?
But then, should I go without a protest?

Not to record things done unto me?
The trespasses, one the Savior said
"Do not, unto others," or was it just a Psalm.
Or a commandment no one really obeyed?

Civilizations have come and gone making
Only a footnote on the pages of time;
Just to evoke passions of grave diggers;
The antiquity preserving historians.

What then a lowly poet say about self?
Forgetting and memory losses, aging that is,
Call it bliss. When the fond memories are lost,
The bitterness and anger of bad ones also gone.