I dare glance at the bookcase, I fear
My old friends, many more to be read, I tear.
Days gone by, enthralled, empassioned, I read
A heap of work, a mountain to climb, I dread.
The days of middle-age, have come
The brain forgetful, coming more quickly, for some.
The desire still remains, to read, to write
The days sift through my fingers, and too, the night.
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