Let them see me one more time,
it's not a crime, to grow old.
or so I'm told, I'm not a freak, am I,
Unless I speak, out loud and bluntly?
From beneath a shroud of silver grey,
what can I say, about my dreams,
the ones that once seemed within my reach,
and though my voice seems feeble, I feel able,
as I stand within this stable aching for the
bell to ring, my feet to sing as I race
towards my demise,It may not be wise to stand
too close.
I care not the prize, but then again,
my shuffling gate is anything but swift.
So I will give it one more try, and if
in my haste I should die, remember me proudly.
This old grey mane was gold, or so I was told,
and it flew from a head held high.
I search the sky for a sign of those that would deny
my right to run free…or die.
