When I was young I sought to find
the furthest reaches of the mind.
Now at the edge of the abyss,
I find it’s simple things I miss.
There is no comfort in the mist
that once I found hard to resist.
What dreams remain when we grow old
determine how our story’s told.
The challenge of my younger days
was seeking behind nature’s ways
a science of the hidden climes
I would discover, given time;
but now I find my logic skewed,
all my grand theories of no use.
What dreams I had when young and bold
are stories not worth being told.
With complicated schemes I’ve sought
to find ways to be sold and bought.
The price of freedom, and of fame,
I’ve learned and sought them, just the same,
despite my failed and shipwrecked plans
to conquer truth and understand.
What dreams I had were smoked and rolled
and are just stories that I’ve told.
So now I’m still adrift at sea,
a flyspeck to eternity;
but I have joy and mirth besides,
though aged by season, wind and tides.
I do not know the primal cause
but still I dream, and hope, because
What dreams remain when we grow old
determine how our story’s told.
02 APR 2004
