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. 7.12.18 |