A Waste of Time

50 years vanished, a waste of time,

Didn't dent the universe, didn't matter a dime,

Except for the few, who were touched for the better,

How far and long the ripples traveled, does it really matter?  

 

50 years looming, a poetic wasteland,

Writing mediocre poems, in sight no end.

Except for the few, that will pierce your heart,

Make you stop in your tracks, that's the lure of art.  

 

50 years reached, a milestone to celebrate,

Pretend to be happy, and smile at any rate.  

Except for the few, when the mask reveals the self,

You behold the beauty, of sensitivity you can't help.

 

Connection, and living-in-the moment, not to protect them would be a crime,

For the next 50 years I'll happily continue, nurturing them by wasting time.