My Spirit is Old, My Body Young.

My Spirit is old, my body young.
Burdened with songs left unsung.

Tomorrow is at the door,
bringing sorrows a score,
As night lays a-spread,
Morning is what I dread.

To sleep is hard,
till my soul departs.
I clothe my restlessness,
In deep darkness.

My Spirit has seen much,
It no longer can be touched,
I wish it could float away,
before a new day.

Yet the night I must endure,
To settle old scores,
Yes, I'll stay a while more,
With a Spirit sore.

About Anticipation.

I like anticipation.
I think everybody does.

You get home, undress and sleep - with an anticipation of tomorrow.

You have a fuzzy idea of what you'll do.
Wake up to wonder.
Brush.
Rush.

You prepare yourself for what you think will come.
And hope that it'll be enough.

You hope.
You reminisce.
You look before you leap.

Like tidy little sentences, you bind yourself.
And brace yourself.

To slay yet another monster.
For there are too many.

Come morning, you go through the motions.
Of slowly peeling off the sleep from your eyes.
And embracing the dawn.

Anticipation helps.
It's a strategist.
For the war you're about to wage on the world.

I like anticipation.
I think everybody does.


Live. Love. Eat.