The Rags of Time

Fleeting, we say, is the youth that we seek to hold

Beyond its natural span; we clip our own wings

In protest of our age. Flightless and old,

We can but pretend our age is not in our things –

Our understanding of hardships, our shoes, perfumes –

But oh – our pointless thoughts are proof enough

That, not being vital, we are not far from the tombs

That haunt us in the life that calls our bluff.

 

In wishing flight we wish to flee from all

The unnatural things that bind our arms –

Work, sighs, coins, cries, bricks, men, grass, them – banal,

We would exchange gladly for humble charms –

Teeth, blinks, strokes, winks – all make the heart unwind

It’s too tight grip on the years too long passed,

Our faces are concerned because years are unkind,

Whilst our organs align with our souls, fast.

 

Workshy and aged, success grinds our breath to a halt

We face the question – aged or ageing?

Whether our inability to grow is ever our fault,

We cannot be sure; our natures disengaging,

And minds break from bodies just quick enough

To refract the pain that it is to say ‘I can’t,’

Inability makes smooth all our roughs,

Thickens our blood where once our veins were scant.

 

Estranged from reason and shadowed from sound,

We reach out arms in hope of promised love.

Disheartened by blasts yet by virtue bound

To seek greater than what we are bereft of.

Ultimate creation embodies hope of the youth,

That brings tears to the eyes of the lengthy in tooth.

Embittered yet hopeful, we plant this seed

That whether ignored or nurtured, turns to weed.