Instead of instant.

Had I practiced

This could by now have

Become my sublime art,

Or set.

Instead I was content

With a meter, self drawn,

On a canvas of dreams.

And so

Along with my muscle memories

Of a forgettable life,

I constitute a very poor last.

I never imagined

What could have been.

I have never been noticed

Because of this lack of lustre.

Had I instead hoped

Then my Steeple Jack climb

May have been worthy.

I cap off a trudged life

With the whimper of winter

And a cold realisation of mortality.

Two days ago

I became sixty four.

I am 64 steps closer

To that closing door.

I draw nearer by the hour.

Christopher Thompson

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