This is the last poem of my twenties
Sweat-stained and full, those years
Of triumph and little moments
Lost even as they happened
Are packed up in a dirty cardboard box
And left in a closet to be occasionally discovered
When looking for something else
But never, no never, thrown away.
Tomorrow starts fresh, stepping into
A new dawn with a limp and a scar
Or two, to make it real.
There steps a man, I think, at last.
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