If I let my tea grow cold, is that a sign of growing old? To where I wait and have to wonder, what will be the next great blunder. Of memory lost, a slip of the key, or something inside so dear to me. Is that apathy playing those tricks, throwing me down in fists and kicks. Making me lose all self control, with burns and scars within my soul. How do I fight that wretched plan, written in place for all of man? Is it in journeys, of life's true bliss, a season change, or sudden kiss. Or something quieter in moments still, where the spirit can have its fill, despite the hot tea left to rot, or a chore I may have forgot, allows itself to live without fear, as I turn the page to another year.