I was thinking about the transition of my life from where I was to where I've been on the short walk to music history this morning, and this poem resulted. Take it at face value.
The Intrigue of a Puddle
It's odd the men who sometimes inspire,
And today Springsteen comes to mind.
Reliving Glory Days and winding back time,
Ignoring decisions driving down to the wire.
Future career, struggles, and a ring,
But walking to class, a puddle calls.
Video games, for the first, numb grade's sting,
Responsibility stumbles; good health stalls.
Am I young or a decrepit old man,
Rushed through my prime years of life?
A constant fight for Purpose and Meaning,
But wondering if larger letters even matter.
No five-line message in this mess,
What you see is what you get.
What little sleep comes fraught with nightmares,
A mirror darkly reflecting mind and soul.
Come drown with Bruce and me,
Forget the toll of Death's bell.
I literally just wrote a blog post that was probably the post-modern equivalent of this poem It's just too much. We're seniors! Yikes.
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