No dearth of lethargy to strain my muse
no rhyme or reason intervenes – a clean
and quick but tedious decease would up
the stakes. One can’t forsake the scenes
where ageless energy proliferates, that’s
repeats of comfort’s theft of memory – a
wage one pays as errors make the grade
too steep a climb without a walking aide
A cane bequeathed me in my wayward
youth defends a view I’d ever heed the
truth, and if I did would soothe a move
dependency quite ruthlessly dictates –
so I make my way with words I choose
before they too are drafted all astray
© 11 April 2013, I. D. Carswell
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