. . . . . .  

This is stupid. 
I don't feel my age.
I feel as young as anyone 
with brittle bones should. 
My muscles may feel like wood,
my gait often stumble-prone. 
I forget simple things easily, 
but still remember the way home,
the names of my children, 
the name of ... oh, yes, my spouse.
I like to travel but prefer the road 
that returns me to my house. 

I don't regret the years I spent
regretting each failed attempt 
at recognition. It came in time.
But i am now past my prime,
too old to preen stale laurel leaves.

This is absurd. 
My speech is not slurred, 
and even though unheard
it is still coherent,
still green with meaning.

I am age and youth at peace 
within one self, a world in which
I am commoner and king,
the voice, the melody I sing.
I am my finale yet unsung.
I am a doleful toll yet unrung.
I live off minutes scrounged 
from miserly time,
until I quit this grubby residue 
and ascend, a spirit sublime. 


07 December 2018
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