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.