Even metaphors get tired
when they start meaning exactly what they say.
No veils. No cleverness.
Just weight.

I used to write in symbols,
now everything sounds like a flat line
dressed in rhythm.
Not dead,
just uninterested in pretending.

There's no poetry in routine.
No metaphor for fading.
It just does.

Somewhere, a line I never said
keeps repeating itself in silence.
And that's the only echo left.

I stopped looking for shape in the noise.
It no longer bends for me.
Even the static feels deliberate now.

I still write,
but not for anyone.
Not even for myself.

Just to see
if the page will flinch.

Some sunny day,
Things will be better.
Less tears to cry,
Less reasons to cry them.
If we can't go on forever,
I'd prefer us to live a happy life.
Happy people are in short supply,
But in high demand.
Some day,
Happy people will be common,
It'll be the sad people who saved themselves,
That'll be respected.

It's hell out there; you open a pack,
Flip the first one—luck on the line.
The enemy waits, prepared to attack.
Smoke it last, if you’ve survived time.

I’ve been saving mine, the pack intact,
Twenties dwindled, now just one.
The crypt lies bare, fate’s lonely pact,
A single smoke, a superstitious sun.

Like these cigarettes, I too stand alone,
A thousand cuts, each loss its own toll.
We share this space, a makeshift home,
Chasing luck to fill the hole.

I run away.
“When the going gets tough,
The tough get going.”
But this was never what it meant.

I run away.
When struggles rise,
The so-called tough
Find answers, not alibis.

I run away.
I see it clear—
The same old patterns
Etched like black
On white veneer.

I’ve failed each time
To sell the truth,
To live the words
I’ve sold as proof.

Oblivious,
Self-absorbed,
A shallow star
On a fading course.

I am alone.
The crop I reap
Is born from seeds
I buried deep.

I seek no grace,
No pity, no balm—
Only to show
The harm I’ve done.

This is no plea
For some reprieve,
But a reckoning—
The pain I weave.

An apology—
To lay these tools,
This sad refrain,
This harm, to rest.

A truce to hold,
A call to mend,
No absolution,
But an end.

Intricate labyrinth of neurons
Within whose web I dally, caught
Tangled synapse-bridged *****
Continuously recalling tallied thought

Laser-etched steel-plate memories
Deny wisdom so dearly sought
Reinforcing episodic-twisted realities
Revealing epiphany where is naught

Neuronal circuits staccato-fire rapidly
Tetanizing notions trauma-wrought
Spike-timing-dependent plasticity
Potentiating emotions distraught

Swearing healing by hippocampal oath
Promising surcease to wet-work hard-fought
Neurogenesis rebuilds hope for both
Amygdalan peace and neural-networked bio-robot

Get maybe six or seven hours sleep,
wake and struggle out of bed.
Stretch to get out the kinks,
living with pain from toes to head.
Visit the bathroom in a hurry,
urgent needs attended to.
Shower and save for no real reason.
Put out the dog, let in the cat.
Feed both and give each a pat.
A bowl of cold cereal with fruit
Lactate milk, brew hot tea, one sugar,
a little cream, English muffin with
honey, tidy up the kitchen.
Turn on the morning local news,
avoiding the Breaking News channels
that mess with my head.
Maybe watch a game show or two, just
to lighten the mood. Return to the kitchen
and for a minute forget why I am there.
I seem to do that a lot lately.
Mount the treadmill for 20 minutes or so.
Take my meds, drink three glasses of water,
hydration being very important it's said.

And so, it goes each day a duplicate of the
one before and the one tomorrow. A captive
caught in a repetitious bubble of advancing
age, kept company by a lifetime of memories
of all that I once was and shall never be again.

Not complaining, I have all I need, a good roof
overhead, food, a home of my own, family close
by, reasonably good health and I am not homeless.
Go to bed happy, arise the same way. No real regrets.

Getting old is a two-edged sword, it cuts both ways
and leaves some scars in the process.
Quiet pragmatic acceptance is the key, along with
realistic expectations.