What if I have written it all away?
All those important things I had to say,
And my creative mind fades in aging?
Should this old woman sit silent?
Observing only, as life’s passions relent?
And ambitions fray beyond assuaging?
Is this the day I’ve become irrelevant?
A life of experience now, an impediment?
As youths fires of souls in mind raging!
Old marries alone; aging artist is eccentric.
Cutting edge technique, an olden-day trick!
Museum dust, archived tomes arranging.
Inside this graying head ideas still burn!
Refined, honed, tested, polished; Taciturn,
Waiting for perfect moment, right paging.
Old woman’s color fades into the background…
Expert hand trembles to write words profound.
Perfect gems require no salacious packaging.
Does age purify the art of the creative?
Or does it stagnate, cease; become vegetative?
Like me, is my art from life now, disengaging?
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