The numbers of my age
make a ten, again.
Most, at this age,
are well arrived.
I am, well,
not arrived at all.

I wonder.
How things be if I,
still me,
with a touch of
wealth maybe?
More to have,
more to share, more to give.

It is not the not-have that picks my brain,
it is the could-have that brings the pain.

It is the gap between
can and could,
not have and should.

The numbers of my age
make a ten, again.
As they did, four times before.

At the age of ten I moved, to set sail nine years later. And on the run off the hill, without standing still, the next one flew by, not even noticed. The last before current, venturous ambitious. Unrest. No heading inherent, the drive overdriven, till something did give in.

Now back on track, I emptied my pack, but not feeling whole, still something I lack. Filling m’cavity with the science of the void, I’m using philosopher's wisdom to sharpen my thoughts.

If the numbers of my age
make a ten again.
After another nine,
how then will then I define
myself again?
 

R.Holmes 2020