After four years & may be more.
I see surviving words that have gone before,
I welcome them as a friend,
Hoping that I am close to the end,
Which is no more than a beginning.
But my god,
I have been a stubborn sod,
And have only myself to blame,
When seeking fame,
And using time,
Which cannot really be measured,
But is mine.
Then I end up crying when I see words and time spent on them crumble,
When first time round I should have listened and been more humble.
But listen to who,
Myself or you,
For whom I now edit and read,
And for whom I bleed,
Hoping that I will know why,
Before I die.