I am imperfect.

Made of torn flesh

and broken bones.

Dreams crushed like stone to gravel

and hope wasted on the likes of me.

Once an Alpha dog

now relegated to solitaire howling.

The younger man in the mirror

looks back at the older man he now is

and remembers the halcyon days of youth.

Aching muscles lift

a decrepit body to

bear armor one more day.

For each day risen

is a victory in itself.

Alas, if only there were

one more dragon to slay

or to die in a hot breath of flames

with sword in hand

and a battle cry that shakes the earth.

A legacy

is the value of a man.

To be remembered by few

who matter and

given credit where due.

I am imperfect.

With no claim otherwise.

A final totem

of simple words

chiseled on a granite marker.