An Old Man Writes

I’m in deep,

not sure,

about self.

All the old doubts,

old voices shouting,

my own heart,

quivering.

I’m not smart,

the voices shout.

Now, I hear the muse,

as I enter,

the tunnel,

the voices are heard.

Why, I ask,

why now,

as I grow weak.

This is for the young,

the smart,

those afflicted with doubt.

Yet, here I stand,

writing nonsense,

the bane of old age,

never knowing,

ever seeking,

an old man

writing about love,

in the dark corners,

behind closed doors.

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