He looks and feels old, exhausted by years of living
A life that’s been up and down but mostly uneventful
The dull days broken at times by bursts of something
Yet not enough to make his journey happy or fruitful
Periods of nothing much, just forgettable in a sense
Yes, he breathes but spends time wallowing in thought
The mundane lackluster events defining his existence
Just a linchpin to a life that seems to be for naught
It’s been said the brightest stars burn out too soon
Thus leaving only duller red giants in the firmament
He’s survived the years in mediocrity; he’s picayune
At his demise, the world will stop not even a moment
So he wonders what makes other lives seem successful
Is it how many friends you have? For he has not many
And whatever few he had, succumbed to the inevitable
Leaving him a survivor, a happenstance sadly unfunny
Does fame trigger success? So-called fifteen minutes
That everyone, be rich or poor, are somehow eligible
But he never wrote a book nor a song nor done feats
Of strength; surely nothing to impress the gullible
Though debatable, people say wealth can buy success
But he’ll never know; for a pot of gold he hasn’t got
Surely he’s lived comfortably, albeit not in excess
Not nearly enough to be a success; certainly not!
He reviews his life, tallies what he has and has not
Though he is alone, he owns a house, owes not a buck
Free, able to help whenever, others who haven’t got
And the people he loves, perhaps they love him back
Maybe that’s all he can expect, all he’s entitled to
There’s a semblance of peace even in the ho-hum days
The feeling of contentment from life’s ebb and flow
No highs but surely no deep lows, he silently prays...
With the end fast approaching, what matters success?
He no longer prays for happiness, just to be content
He’s wronged a few; for that he asked forgiveness
And maybe he’ll earn rewards for a life well-spent!
© Vic A Evora...