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The Grown-Up

The perforated edges on my calendar are torn;
‘Seems every twenty minutes another day is born.
I seem to have an older face, the wonderment is gone;
I’m closer to the sunset and further from the dawn.

“When I grow up…” has come to pass;
Now look upon the man;
I’ve not become that football star
I begin to understand.

But turning eyes to what’s ahead,
There are dreams yet in my cup;
There are men that I still want to be
Someday… when I grow up.

Picture of Wes Stephenson

Wes Stephenson

Author, motorcyclist, poet, and adventurer. Let's journey together.

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