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Mark



I had my years
for what they were worth
(some of them a great deal,
some less so),
but you know
I never rose up,
never peaked,
never left my mark;
nevertheless,
here I am, today (how?),
old, and sad, and gray,
thinking just a little more time
might yet fulfill a promise,
might yet output a life.

All poems are written and copyrighted by Michael C. Rush.
None may be republished or repurposed without permission.