Growing Old

Growing old

Growing old is a tale to be told.

I was expected to fit to the mold.       

The knowledge I began to hold,

Would soon make me bold.

Growing old is a tale to be told.

I sat in my bed and scrolled,

Never knowing what was to unfold;

Always wishing never to grow old.                   

Growing old is a tale to be told.    

My religion turned me to gold.

That beautiful kingdom I wish to behold,

Only then will I rest my soul.

Growing old is a tale to be told.    

The seasons turn cold,

And then back to gold.

Many miles I will have strolled,

When I am finally old.