[My time is running out, of that I’m sure]

My time is running out, of that I’m sure
and with the sentence comes a sense of dread –
no, not of going poof  [what can endure?]
but rather that I’ll leave with stuff unsaid.
I never gave a fig for poetry –
wrote flaming diatribes when in my prime
content with prose right up to fifty-three
when – hey, what’s this? – I started spouting rhyme.
I wrote of pointless nonsense – like the sound
of rain on rooftops and of gulls that screech,
the silence of the snow upon the ground
and answers that were always out of reach.
    And now I’d like to disembowel all norms
    and rewrite rants in measured, metered forms

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