"Poetry and hums aren't things which you get, they're things which get you. All you can do is go where they can find you" – A.A. Milne, Winnie-the-Pooh
I can feel age sinking into my bones,
This terminal growth is a delicate sin.
The lightning before the thunder,
a long low rumble ere the rain sets in.
These knots hold tightly together,
no longer as naive and giving since youth.
Skin is drier, shod of downy paunch
It’s glow a little faded, a little worn, a little scarred.
Slumped upon bone are the marks of my face.
Like pastry thats pressed too hard in its case.
Gone is the roundness and upturn of the mouth,
Instead I am sallow with a permanent frown.
The darkness of oldness is a beautiful thing,
Framing the eyes for the world to look in.
Bruised by the world these vessels grow thin
At war with a world to which we cannot but cling