The Juggler

  

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

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