AN EGO MADE OF STONE
At thirty, an ego made of stone
Sculptor of his own statue
So perfect, yet so cold
Only weakness allows emotion
To collide with its ambition
At fifty, still like granite
Measured by expensive toys
Savoring the climb behind him
Blinded to what lay ahead
For an ego made of stone.
At seventy, evidence of crumbling
Alone at the top rung
A Statue without a sculptor
Longing for renovation
Of an ego made of stone
At ninety, new statue in its place
All trace of broken remnants
Long since swept away
There’s nothing left
Of an ego made of stone
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