A POEM by: Fernando de Mello Pimentel
Lights get dimmer on stage
with the coming of age.
And by turning the page
gone are them days of rage.
Past and present engage
under sheets of maroon and beige.
As youth flees its gentle cage
pumping shells from a 12 gauge.
Feelings have gone on a rampage.
Living off a minimum wage.
Spare me some change?
Things are so strange...
A sitting target in a shooting range.
A year for every bullet in exchange.
Can that be arranged?
Or should all my verses end with age?
All Rights Reserved - 2008 FPimentel Poems & Publishing Co.
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