Sonnet #373

 I have forgotten more than I will ever know

I used to spend hours reading and writing 

And now the weight of obligation throws

All hope of immortality into the rubbish bin

Good enough is all I can muster, a bit of book

A bit of music, a bit of healthy food, no wine

In the dark, no late nights burning what I took

From time upon the altar of precious time

And I touch the spines of old friends, attempt conjuring

Fragments of memory, faded now, like piano songs

No more practice, so my fingers forget forget forgetting 

How do I even end these stray lines written and gone?

Do I say something beautiful, now, to conjure the song?

Do I end with a wisdom? Either way, I am taking too long.