It is my way to write a rhyme
On every single birthday;
A game of sorts with passing Time,
This record of my earth days.
Eons from now I’ll read them o’er
And blush at my assumptions
I’ll yawn at me being a bore
And hope for interruption.
But every now and then I’ll pause,
To laugh at some reflection—
At words that reach beyond this clause
With poignant imperfection.
And then I’ll seek a pen and ink
Inspired by my past failure
I’ll write again a poem to link
Myself to past and future.