The days grow old

The days grow old

The calender turns it's pages;
one by one, day by day.
We search for meaning, for love lost, for hope to be found.
We are bound by nothing, free to be and live our lives with
a new found joy for the life well lived. The hell is over,
the heaven begun. Our yearning has been fulfilled, and we once again,
are fulfilled. Our young lives our full of endless pages of new beginnings,
and yet the book is not nearly finished. The yearly pages our full of old
becoming new, new becoming reality, and dreams becoming fulfilled. We search,
yearn, hope, and yet who knows what the next page holds. There is a number at the bottom of the page but the page is filled with blank and empty lines, ready at any moment to be filled in, to become memories. Memories of a life truly lived to the utmost desire. We shall not yield ever. We shall live forever. We shall become immortal. Our fountain of youth has been dipped in twice, and we shall never fail to stop living. Not for one second, one moment, one note could change everything. We do not wait for the perfect moment, we create it, never holding on to that truth, to that one moment that could change our lives forever. We let go, and let nature take over. We dare to disturb the universe without fear and while they talk of Michelangelo we go paint our own Sistine Chapels. We don't talk about it, we just do it. We create, we live, we love, we never stop living to hope, we just turn our hopes into reality and we don't wait for our flowers to stop blooming we keep growing taller while others weep yonder a midst the wallflowers. We pull from the wall all of those who wish for better lives, and we never stop to wonder what might have been. When our lives are over our tombstones will read no regrets ever, rip forever.