Like it was our Last [poem]
Time goes by so quickly voices say at 30
something years of age without a trace of
irony — their smooth taut faces creased
with temporary deathless shiny depilated
still so far undessicated flesh. Selfful image
grossly moonly fabricated while infatuated
quasi-animated still unwaiting for the end
But when you’ve 60 on the fleeting page
you’ll realise the whole of retchid life has
so unkindly passed you by. Your fading
quest: to beautify a sow’s sag ear hoping
thus to make a purse of proudly sleek and
soundly silken dreams. Yet all your pseudo
schemes will fall into a hole within the earth
For all the reasons carved in timely words
above we have to live each moment like it
was our last. For all our living highs and lows
someday like smoke evaporate into the past
and then we’ll scourgingly regret that we did
never truly fret enough to birth like grateful
kings and queens who know what life is worth
© 2012, Alan Morrison
The Naked Troubadour 