Growing Silver

 In my brunette years in school I learned a proper poem needs structure,

Syntax, meter, form, and of course rhythm and rhyme.

And if you scribbled, erased and rearranged quaint phrases

Bold ideas and pithy thoughts, well, it’d be a masterpiece in time.


And then I thought of aging and adulthood as a poem 

Of structured perfection, where one has formed one’s life 

Into a sublime sonnet, opulent ode, or elegant elegy,

And managed to smooth over all pain and strife.


But as I’m growing silver I see ever more clearly

That poetry and life are formed of jagged pieces.

And broken phrases, broken people, lacking rhythm, lacking rhyme 

Can also create a ballad of beauty that grows gilded over time.


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