This cloudy day, I am thirty-nine;
And seems little for which I have time.
Life has been a series of flashes,
Each igniting others to ashes;
Strident torrents of experience
Leave me in chaotic circumstance;
Confusion an “future shock” cause haze
And staccato thoughts in a grey maze.
Youthful values have been uprooted
By an adult no longer suited;
Beliefs once held as axiomatic,
Now seem less than pragmatic.
Those ecstatic loves of college days
Are but dim visions from ancient plays;
Bright teachers, vivid and admired,
Long since retired or expired;
Friendships treasured, now long passed,
Have burned their value to the last.
Adroitly hewed business acuity
Has produced mental vacuity,
While dormant treasures of the mind
Were sadly ignored by lack of time;
Thus, once coveted avocations
Now seem empty provocations.
What may be said of the years to come;
What patterns may we expect to be run?
Will many desired changes flow,
Or will most the same winds blow?
Does progress demand breach with tradition,
Or will it permit some new condition?
Must man adhere to the structured mold,
Or dare he break from the fold?
Can man be the master of his fate,
Or is he really its lowly mate?
It’s academic and matters not;
To live’s to strive to improve one’s lot.
If the past has not man fulfilled,
Some changes into life must be spilled.
And is the joy not in the searching;
On such must not our hopes be perching?
Does not the bird enjoy migration,
More than the next and vegetation?
Is not the trauma obscured
By the optimist’s vision blurred?
To savour the “up” requires the “down”;
The smile precedes and follows the frown.
Joy predominates – notwithstanding all.
There is a rise for every fall.
But, on this strange day, I am thirty-nine –
And there’s much for which I must make time.