There’s something to be said for growing older.
When you think of the
alternative
It’s not so bad at all.
In fact it would seem sad to
miss
That time of quiet
reflection,
Remembering the good, the
bad,
The Cinderella ball.
The burdens of the world upon
their shoulders,
Though labor seems to be a
slave of youth.
Quiet desperation to find
harmony,
Seeking the benevolence of
unrelenting truth.
Every wrinkle, every line a
story to be told,
Lessons learned more valuable
than solid bricks of gold,
Treasures far too precious to
be ever bought or sold,
Guiding young hearts through
the trials
As pangs of youth unfold.
Never doubt the force old
people harbor.
To waste the knowledge of
their years
Would surely be a crime.
Though youth would seek the
power and the glory,
Power comes from wisdom
And wisdom grows with time.
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