Look, friends:
I’ll be dead
sooner, not later.
Will never make it to
one hundred twenty two;
stop calling this
“middle age.”
These are
gateway days, friends;
I’m at peace, why aren’t
you? I am upright under
a lovely arch twined
with vines and blooms.
When I look back into the
long valley I’ve come from
I see a view I can
adore; when I look up
to the Divide above me
what I see is glorious with
the rays of the same sunrise
I came from, as it barely feels
like it’s been a day
since I was born. I still feel
new, but know I’m not; friends,
is that not perfection?
Dark Matter 