I'm older than I used to be.

I'm older than I used to be,
I remember yesterday quite clearly
I was clever smart and sharp,
each day had purpose.
Now, I'm not so sure what to do,
I search for yesterday.

No one cares about my worth,
my talent or my wit.
Each day that passes is lost in nemesis.
What can I do to stop the rot,
the decay of sitting still and waiting
for publisher to call-they never do.

How shall I shout to make the world aware
of all I have to offer.
The world shouts back in stony silence,
alarming with disinterest,
the insistence to do something
rings hollowly from within.

I cannot stand the din of emptiness,
come, muse and help me sing
what music is irrelevant
as long as there is a tune.
It's mine that no one else can play
or write or paint or sing.

It matters not that no one hears,
perhaps the word will entertain
when I am dead and gone.
The words that echo in my wake
perhaps they too will die silently
Unknown, unread and dead.

No one will care, so why all the trouble
to make a new creation?
I have no idea, - just to fill my days?
To live in hope of some tiny immortality?
But if those words and songs
they die with me - so what?
At least there lived a poet,
whose songs sang out,
whose words warmed empty pages,
deaf heaven was beautified,
the qiet echoes passing by,
celebrating my lonely word.