The stiffness of my joints is met only
By the inane sound passing through my ears
Rigidly cementing my mind slowly
With the fears only old men are aware
What will I be when I’m 64?
Happy or alone? With dreams realised
Or postponed, indefinitely ignored
How can I tell now whereabouts I’ll arrive?
But at least, when we all leave for our breaks
We can find the time to reclaim our minds
To sit in silent comfort and forsake
The weary trudging of the daily grind.