ManicWorld Magazine

Another Sunday, another blue and white sky,
passing through I can only sigh,
the day’s too quick, the day’s too long,
I’m too old – no, that’s wrong!

The time’s not wasted, ‘though I do not toil,
I no longer labor in office or soil,
retirement, it’s called, no 9 to 5,
I am extraordinarily alive!

Days and nights somehow get mixed
and hours and seconds all get switched,
but it doesn’t matter in any case,
as long as there’s a future to face.

Aye, there’s the rub, the ointment fly,
too soon it lies, the day I’ll die,
but I’ll scream at the deadline, bold and loud,
before I am put into that shroud!

I’m not TOO old, I refuse to concede,
there are too many answers I still need,
so I’m sticking around ‘til I come unglued,
and float away, with knowledge imbued.