The Auteur Poem by Bryan Taplits

Another day, 'This works for me',
the young man woke astride.
His nemesis, an unknown curse,
A soaring, haughty pride.
He thought that he was cool and keen
His "Lifespan' he would ride,
But little did he know
that "Life" rode too-
And by his side.

He breathed in deep-before his route
which took him out the door,
He had no time for hugs nor byes-
nor any kinsmen chores.
'He must, ' he thought, his lot awaits-
"My wake" ‘gainst destined foes"-
His course and plot, no choice had he-
His sails hoist long ago.

But then his clock spread and skipped
-And slid by slothful years-
Years seized by sands; he passed strange lands,
No wins, no laughs. Just years.
His gait no longer quite so jaunt-
His melody ebbed, and so,
No longer brimmed with confidence-
This youth's riding mate now his foe.

As years they passed-
His race slowed up-
No longer bold-now tame,
Where once he crowed "The Chosen One"-
He cursed outloud that name.
Accepting his remaining plight,
All deeds unveiled,
Undressed, undone-
Expecting his remaining days
As clouds and without sun.
But then tears un-sere, a spark appeared-
New skies
Would mop old fears.

And soon arrived, a marriage bloomed
To this man once of doom-
Although at times he still raged and railed,
At palaces with no rooms.
His life travailed-
A desert bed-
But comfort in this tent.,
A honeymoon-
Acceptance of a life-
A quest, not lived
but spent.
First months they finished fast-
His clock still stumbled swift-
But no longer could he find the will
To moan at his marriage-hitch.
And though he still scratched at life-
to find that hidden itch-
Past times, past goals, his ship at sea,
No longer were adrift.

And through his course, he raced it still,
His fate-not gold, but brass, .
All gelded days now mere work days
With tolls mundane and crass.
But then, nine months, a girl born to him,
He haughty again. Avast!
His boyhood dreams once more secured-fulfilled.
An Auteur he-
At last!