Growing old and wise: A poem

Percipient I get as I grow old

When matters of romance grow a tad cold

Dignity and honour indeed grow bold

Not driftwood caught in a river’s fold

Character matches with my soul’s substance

The chef in me throws in the patience

Life’s ironies make me wish no comeuppance

Weeds and thorns keep growing distant

I don’t seek refuge in ambition and dreams

Stoicism alone is my peaches and cream

Honesty of illusions is but my means

Clouds foraging the sky are not my steam

I test solitude with the gift of words

Even as the poetry of life is a terse verse

I begrudge nothing. At every dusk I nurse

the idea that tomorrow can’t get any worse

Published by montecyril

Hi, I am Monte Cyril Rodrigues and live in Melbourne, Australia. I am a retired journalist. I have been diagnosed with schizophrenia. I've had voices and visions all my life. I think it is a spiritual experience, my doctors think otherwise. I am a deeply spiritual person and keep having experiences with otherworldly realms. View more posts