On the run
From place
To place,
I search ahead
For space
Might be akin,
To the images
That populate
My spent head,
With a life spin
Of purpose clear,
For I’ve but left
A meagre stay,
And far too near
Be Reaper Grim
To dog my way,
Hence I hold run
To find a stead
Of lesser haste,
Afore fate ends
This journey’s race!
I feel a book
Less than a tome,
Where I abide
Held be my home,
There on a shelf
I am to dwell,
Alphabetized
In a near hell,
Tucked in a space
For easy trace,
If one’s to find
My aging face,
That I myself
Find hard to place,
As time has stolen
Most recall,
I must rely
On passers-by
To so point out,
‘Tis I so perched
Now on the shelf,
Held thus too soon
Suffer a place of rest!
