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Old
January 2, 2019
When the days curl up at the foot,
and pile like hard used dishes,
and foggy memory grows like a beard,
and fills your ears in insulation,
and dull your senses to a quiet roar,
cutting in and out like stations,
and arms thin and blotch like rotting twigs,
and lips thin and whiten with long use,
and hair replaces with thinning wigs
and you breathe out penultimate breaths
that is when you have truly finished,
and at last you may take your rest.
© Josh W., Kannapolis, NC
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This poem is about aging, and the inevitability of death. Things wear, they break down, they thin and crack. Things become old and decrepit, and then they die. It is an unpleasant and unavoidable fact, yet there is also the last days of a person, when they have wisdom and no cumpulsion against saying it, that provides us with something great and powerful. This poem is about those last, halycon days.