None are entitled to live past twenty,
Nor guaranteed a timely tomorrow.
The graveyard ghouls are green with envy,
Since you’re here, heart pulsing, steady, and heavy.
So, why do you hide your lucky draw?
You’ve won the dice roll day after day;
You’ve become a bit of a time bourgeois,
Because you are alive, and they are not.
A second survived is a game well won.
Odds stack in your favor,
But never be stunned.
If your breathing might falter, your life may be done.
Eternal youth, what a tempting term.
But impossible, impassable,
Lest you’re underneath the dirt.
Are pores and wrinkles so much worse?
Signs of old age are Lady Luck’s love,
Like four-leaf clovers sunk into skin.
Each fold of the flesh, perfect as pure doves,
Because you are alive, and age is your trove.
