Nothing rhymes in the land of the old.

After years of enduring, I’m never quite curing those tired, maturing old souls I’m procuring, assuring, and each day securing while touring misfortunes untold.

Lately found myself fading, restating, relating to so many in waiting contemplating unabating, and creating these tales that unfold.

What these people are needing is a break from the beating, a mere greeting or feeding, and daily repeating their pleading for a peace they hope soon to behold.

Yet I find them endearing when I, upon hearing their fearing, I’m steering some of them to a clearing free of pain, persevering the bright light which will someday console.

Though my mission, ambition, and heartful condition cries out in admission I am no magician, physician, nor in a position to cure, just to help and to hold.

Nothing seems to rhyme when you’re old.