by Nick Gisburne
The aspects of a man he longed to be
Ambition, dreams, an appetite for more
Irrelevant, are scattered to the sea
The stale, discarded shadows of before
He does not rush to mark his place in time
The fickleness of life has taught him this
Where once a moment wasted was a crime
A day, a week, abandoned brings him bliss
His mind remembers all he did not say
But nothing in that silence brings regret
He does not need the past to find his way
Tomorrow will not damage him, not yet
He fills his days with everything he needs
By that alone a simple life succeeds
