Youth’s thorned crown is that of wizened age,
Which righteous life or chance perhaps bestow.
Should golden youth aspire to wisest sage;
‘Cross Styx or pearly gate he still must go.
Yet what’s the gift when time hath stayed deaths hand?
Stooped back, gnarled cane perhaps a toothless grin?
Too oft men deem that such a state be grand,
Then take times test and end life much chagrined.
When years transform bright eyes to dullest pearl,
And frailty creeps into every bone;
Is this the prize of life our hope unfurls,
Before we meet sad destiny alone?
Perhaps ’tis but time’s wish to humble man,
And have him crawl, not march to meet his end.
© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.