The older ones
are passed their prime.
Holding them up
is getting tiring.
Never had
the deft hands
of a juggler,
all too often
I drop the ball.
Reflection sinks in.
A mirror image mockery
of whom we were,
long before we learned
that light
could be broken
into colors.
The old story
lost its morals.
Time to tell another tale.
Time to live,
and love,
and grow again;
come what may.
Never been much for nostalgia.
So easy to turn and walk away.
Too easy,
if you ask me,
some days.
Take a piece
and carry on.
Leave the past
on the ground.
I can’t go on
carrying all this
around.
Free, now.
But only
for a moment.
Some new life’s
trying to weigh me down.
Fill my hands,
burdens on my back,
arms tired.
I have always envied
the juggler.
Keeping everything in the air.
Good to know
that there is so much more
to learn
out there.
HG – 2022
