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On looking back in reverie,
At that which made the me of me,
I see so clearly through the mist,
That all my past is poetic grist.

A diamond from a chunk of coal,
Light grew from dark nights of my soul,
I learned to love, use not my fist,
That all my past is poetic grist.

And all my trials, pains, frustrations,
All my joys and jubilations,
Every corner and every twist,
That all my past is poetic grist.

This poetic mill is part of me,
And grew from living my journey,
I hold no grudge nor keep a list,
For all my past is poetic grist.

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