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What once was a pebble has gathered
no moss, rolling (not yet
declining?) towards middle age,
that problematic but venerable epoch
of reading glasses
and white hair
and aching back.
I clearly see the oncoming

shadow of dark golden years overtaking me,
weighing on me as I tumble
faster,
dropping like a stone, perfected
for the fall
through a life – if not well
lived – at least
survived.

The blind man hopes
through heightened senses he may hear
the darkness ebb, hindsight
reflected
in the vanity mirror he no longer bothers
with, confident that
maybe
a life without regret is one well lived
after all. After all.

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