I’ve been accused of being hasty
Full of mischief
I don’t act my age
And just what would my maturity be
Were there no markers to presume me sage?

And since when does sage mean stoic?
Or static? Or standard? Or stunted? Or still?
If my entire youth was lived being the rebel
Why shouldn’t my later years
Hold the same will?

I share a bond with Luna
My spirit justly named
Come mess with me
Try to lead me astray
If by chance you think I’m tamed

Simply because my sea of ebon locks
Is pierced with a few opaque silver strands
I’ll blow smoke circles while we match martinis
’Cuz come the morning
It will be me who still stands

An Ample Beauty in all my glory
A modern Venus rising from the foam
Luna shines her light upon me
As I add new tales
To her ancient tomes

I’m vivaciously living to my fullest
So when I close my eyes at last
It won’t be with tears for what wasn’t done
But with a jocund wink
To my past


National Poetry Month – Day 17

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