Counting the Hours

Counting the hours
as the minutes slip by
and I wonder
how many minutes I’ll remember
when I die

The passage of time
and corridors of silence,
but for echoes of memories
and remnants of myself,
whisper to me to walk
the journey of an age
No hand to hold
No song to sing
Just getting old
No gift to bring

And I’m left
standing naked ‘fore the mirror
My reflection a reminder
of who I am
and not
who I appear to be

All I have is the ‘now’
The ‘what was’ is gone
and the ‘now’ is here
I’m done counting minutes
It’s the hours I fear.

© The Drummer Poet


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