With age I’ve grown tired,
weary but not insane.
My bones are rather achy,
but my heart is too humane.
At night my vision is blurry,
with pills I kill my pain.
My hearing aid does help,
for sound to reach my brain.
But offensive words do fall,
......
Though the day I had at it's fill
Only you the one come by my way
And rather the old friends did conceal
Behind curtain, on the day.
Later Sun rise, after all, on you
Half hidden from the shine I call
As the withered leaves by dew
Restore itself, next to fall.
......
There are some inventions
that do not exist.
Old age is one of them.
Those who go ‘there'
take childhood with them,
hold its dimpled little fingers
in their hands,
tell it their stories.
They take with them their silly little habits,
their tricks to get around restrictions,
......
That old man in the chair
with the still, spotted hands
hunched over on his porch
and gazing into nowhere.
His youth has ran,
on the ground he lands.
No one seems to care,
and onto them, his dead eyes stare.
Unvarnished and worn by age
see it slouch by the wall,
its silence sharper than the kitchen knives.
We rely on something or someone sturdy.
Facing the candlelight at meals, he holds her
to resist the decay of ashwood
until it breaks at its last supper.
He knows where the kindling goes.
......
With age I’ve grown tired,
weary but not insane.
My bones are rather achy,
but my heart is too humane.
At night my vision is blurry,
with pills I kill my pain.
My hearing aid does help,
for sound to reach my brain.
But offensive words do fall,
......
Unvarnished and worn by age
see it slouch by the wall,
its silence sharper than the kitchen knives.
We rely on something or someone sturdy.
Facing the candlelight at meals, he holds her
to resist the decay of ashwood
until it breaks at its last supper.
He knows where the kindling goes.
......
Though the day I had at it's fill
Only you the one come by my way
And rather the old friends did conceal
Behind curtain, on the day.
Later Sun rise, after all, on you
Half hidden from the shine I call
As the withered leaves by dew
Restore itself, next to fall.
......
Old age is not the face
but the content in cranial -space
Old age
but not
a torn page