Whilst the others rode, skied, and ran on to glory and honor—in squalor, he lay alone and broken in a shelter along the Arrowhead trail; he noted his long life of folly. He reflected on the absurdity of his existence, his despair was exacerbated by the sweat trenched clothing that clung to his ravaged, aged physique. He conjured a future that included continued decline and desolation. False teeth and a walker await him. Here's a haiku poem written by the author on his recent racing effort:
Defeated, alone.
Desperate for Casino.
Dishonored, forlorn, broken
more to come in the near future............
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"If you believe you are a poet, then you are saved"
ReplyDelete-corso
Please continue...........I am sure there is a fortune in there somewhere.
ReplyDeleteslender fungus
Do not go gentle into that good night,
ReplyDeleteOld age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Somewhere, I have seen that written in Latin. Can you give us some clues???
DeleteAri
Charlie, have you given consideration to the sport of trail running? :-)~
ReplyDelete