Getting Old

I find that now this day is here
I need a place to stand
A harbor from the final tempest
Adrift in search of land
I bear no gift or talent
With which to pay my way
Accountability for myself and more
Are words of yesterday

It was never my intent
To weave this path alone
Searching through a clouded hope
Of more that’s yet unknown
Words that soar above the din
Of precision and well defined
Floating to receptors
Standing ready by design