Some legends may be content,
just sitting in a tired rocking chair,
passing the days of their dotage,
doing nothing but seeing the reflection of their glory days in polished alloy.
For me however,
I desire nothing less than to whittle away my existence,
seated in a balcony overlooking a thousand lives in their spring tide.
For me, to wallow in sentiment is to waste that precious eleventh hour,
to waste that last morsel of wax, before the candle burns out.
When I reach my twilight years,
I intend to bolt through without missing a single microsecond,
leaving only a trail of blazing fire as a marker, and a precedent as a legacy.
I refuse to willingly slump into that repetitive arc of motion,
to greet that man in black with nothing less than my full potential,
to have that flame do nothing less than burn out in a blaze,
shaped like phoenix feathers, presence like stormy weathers.
just sitting in a tired rocking chair,
passing the days of their dotage,
doing nothing but seeing the reflection of their glory days in polished alloy.
For me however,
I desire nothing less than to whittle away my existence,
seated in a balcony overlooking a thousand lives in their spring tide.
For me, to wallow in sentiment is to waste that precious eleventh hour,
to waste that last morsel of wax, before the candle burns out.
When I reach my twilight years,
I intend to bolt through without missing a single microsecond,
leaving only a trail of blazing fire as a marker, and a precedent as a legacy.
I refuse to willingly slump into that repetitive arc of motion,
to greet that man in black with nothing less than my full potential,
to have that flame do nothing less than burn out in a blaze,
shaped like phoenix feathers, presence like stormy weathers.
