Hypogeum

 

I’m not sure I’m gonna make it.

All the aches

and pains

of age

and strain

from all these games

I’ve played and lost along the way.

I’m past the point

of top performance.

My body’s diminished,

my mind’s an annoyance.

I don’t get a chance

to be light,

and be buoyant,

day after day

crash waves

of disappointment.

 

If this is “Middle age”,

I guess I should be happy.

I made it,

and I should I wake up and gladly

take a bit of the sting

of this thing

called “Life” away.

In times of great misery,

I make good company.

 

Hitting the wall

or the bottle.

Withdrawal,

full throttle.

The king of my castle

who lives on the bottom.

A palace of bones,

a throne drenched in blood,

I’d go it alone,

but I’m still in love.

 

I’ve just got to push further,

I have to be stronger,

I have to go harder,

just hang on longer.

Keep grinding away

on the edge,

’til I’m sharper,

then cut myself out

of this darkness.

 

I’m not gonna live underground.

I’ve had enough of that

this time around.

I’ve been so high,

that when I came out of the clouds,

I never stopped

going down.

I’m giving up all of that, now.

I’m gonna finally make you proud.

I know it seems hopeless,

but I know that growth is,

like wearing pain as a crown.

If that’s the case,

then I’ll be the king

of this orbiting burial mound.

 

 

HG – 2021

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