I am 74 years old now,
and I am drifting in and out of moments.
I am not sure what they mean,
what the silent muse is trying to show me.
I see imaginary moments
that never happened.
I see other moments too painful to imagine.
I see the weary face in the mirror, that tired old man with the graying and thinning hair.
The questions and doubts that I have battled throughout my time still haunt me.
Will all my sins be forgiven?
Are they even forgivable?
Will I ever be worthy?
Will I be remembered?
Countless, never-ending plagues of angst.