Jun 2018
Dare any swain escape his youth intact,
Soon after the fringe of courage will discolour into fade,
Until one day the pause,
The morning mirror, the tics and taunts,
Who is this clumsy old man his story will complain.
His bruise of reputation echoes back as tease,
The ***** and sag of masculine decline,
Is journaled in the bloom of brown blotch on his hands,
The tattered skin, the oaf and clownish frown,
The aberrant fur in ears and nose,
The quitter’s curve now cues to crooked spine,
There is no bath, no rub, nor miracle devine,
From here on in he culls and manages decline.
Soon after the fringe of courage will discolour into fade,
Until one day the pause,
The morning mirror, the tics and taunts,
Who is this clumsy old man his story will complain.
His bruise of reputation echoes back as tease,
The ***** and sag of masculine decline,
Is journaled in the bloom of brown blotch on his hands,
The tattered skin, the oaf and clownish frown,
The aberrant fur in ears and nose,
The quitter’s curve now cues to crooked spine,
There is no bath, no rub, nor miracle devine,
From here on in he culls and manages decline.
Aging is a petty crime in a world that meticulously tracks time. In a nano second I can message the collective only to tell everyone how slow I have become. But I like everyone else fights the inevitable. Death, the ***** of decline, the blur of a day that becomes the fog of a month, that becomes the ancient history of a year or two. When have we had enough? The answer of course is never! Tell me stories about how aging is effecting you. Much humour in it too.
Written by
Hank Helman
Please log in to view and add comments on poems
