My mind is frantic,
Only more frantic with age,
My soul is fragile,
A piece lost every day,
How do we cling to a life?
So determined to pass away.
How do we keep a good marching order?
When the last horn’s blare has faded to gray?
Just grab a stick and pick a trail,
There is no right course or way,
Do not tarry,
Lest you miss the sun’s last rays.