An Old Toll

I can’t know
How old I was on the day
She birthed me,
But the years grew gray,
Weathered, worn,
In their ancient stay

Speaking colloquially-
In the familiar vernacular-
Whispering ages past
As seasons pass by in practical
Little miracles and tiny deaths
Erupting into the spectacular.

But the sunsets sing hymns
To my parched old soul
How they danced, holding out hands,
But I was always too slow
To support or defend my friends;
To make amends for my role,

Or the severity of my toll.

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