Age, like the flow of sin
upon skin, imparts its wrath,
and at some point unrecognised I am,
skin lined and less than smooth,
as if life did tattoo make,
each line etched in experience, deep,
no other than for time’s sake.
I relish not this affront,
this blink and miss the decades passed,
and suddenly confronted by,
this skin draped over aching bone
and sallow its tone be,
not rich and bronzed like later days,
but pale and wan as it is.
Sigh, a relenting of delusion,
facing the confusion of aged minds,
experience rich and wisdom kind, yet
that spring in the step, now a limp,
for all I sucked from that marrow,
and now life tells me to sit down and relax,
no more axes to grind, time maligned.
I hold onto mind, my last bastion,
and throw words like horseshoes,
hoping to hear that clink of a bull’s eye,
and know they mean something to someone,
as time abides no man,
yet man abides time with no reprieve,
in this my sentimental mind, taken leave.
I have not the energy for cranky,
as many old men do,
so I’ll ponder all that’s come and gone,
what I gained or did lose,
and words shall be my epitaph, as eloquent as I can,
so not to let my purpose fall,
without my own command.
Tony DeLorger © 2016