by Betty Johnson

Created on: January 18, 2011

What is lost, what is gained
As our years now near the end?
Plan for tomorrow, not beyond
No future 'round the bend
 
Dreams grow shorter wishes fade
No longer longing to be
Those longing days all over
This is the final me
 
Too late for second chances
As we have made our choice
Too late to make a difference
No one to hear our voice
 
No promise of tomorrow
A 'maybe' at the most
As we plan that final trip
And give up to the ghost
 
Now running out of days
Each one we but endure
Dying slowly, of old age...
Of which there is no cure.

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