bad times would come to make me cry.
What had I done? What was the cause?
Were these the fruits of divine laws?
Now that I'm old, each day's a gift:
the good, the bad, the subtle rift.
My life flows swift towards end of time
and I am glad that they are mine.
Unfulfilled literary aspirations?.
Join us at the Weekend Writer's Retreat to share your work.
Or just stop by to appreciate others'.