Hot and humid, I sleep almost bare,
In mind and body
As we reach the 40s in age and temperatures
The mind is free
To think of nothing
Maturity, or maye be tolerance
We often lose track
And memory, and people
Old songs, old words
Times past, of teen age, of childhood
The roof is bare
We would have painted some pictures
Yet at this age and temperatures
That is better left
For there is nothing but boredom
A lack of will, acceptance of lack of skill
We may have seen it all
We know, we must have
But poetry
Ah, poetry remains
Everything is poetry, else poetic justice
Our past labour has borne us fruits
Some rotten, others taste sweet
But then again
Where was I?
Ah! summer nights
Boring summer nights
Devoid of sleep, and we are still scribbling
Poetry was it?
Yes, yes.
Poetry.
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