I don't want to be this old
The fried crisp lips and
a neck with strings of
gobbled goop skin like
Christmas lights circle

the end of the days
like cookslices.  The
taglike things,

the straight hairs on my
chins, there are several,
poke into collars raw from
rubbing on butiful jewlry

I refrain my lament
Being 77 yars old
is like the inside
of a soup can
dried on the counter
corner for a week.

Caroline Shank
12.31.2023

What thoughts in word
reside beyond the dimming
of your eye

Were I able to read your commandments engraved
behind your disguise ?

I catch the morning's light
in the rays of reflection of
your lack of dedication

It takes a while to fall from the highest tree . Longer still to hew it down .

think i may like to travel to small places,
old and full of history. deep aged fabrics
stained with the words of time. to touch

they want to take my toys away
'cos I won't play the game their way
but they don't understand my vision
see through my eyes of contradiction
the gatekeepers have closed their realm
standing strong for what they believe in
I know they'll never let me pass
they have a hatred that's deep entrenched
I'll carry on regardless though
in my one man delusional show