My eyes have become my hands
as my ears are now my tongue,
and all my willing and walking
are done today in repose.
Where once ambition planned
and my shoulders pushed the world around,
there's nothing but the craft of observation,
the labor of passive sighs.
The harvest has grown beyond my blade,
and the streams of irrigation course like canyon rapids;
children are my mentors,
my life's in syndication.
The golden scepter's now an awkward cane,
my crown the attic's treasure;
yet while my kingdom, as do all, inevitably passes,
one true monarch's ever comes and endless is as always was.
PLEASE ENCOURAGE AUTHOR,
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