It’s the cruelest
of all life’s curses,
When you’ve grown
out of innocence
and tasted the last
of youth’s decadent glow,
That the gray sets in
and the wrinkles
wither your skin.
You’re left alone to die,
but expected to breathe-
to want to keep going.
Alone in a room
full of ornaments and frames
that taunt you
with the beauty of your past,
You count the birthdays
and holidays
through photos in your phone,
postcards you shakily read.
Each one passing
to an alienating tune
sung by your distant descendants.
You'll want to scream.
Cry.
Beg for company.
You’re forced to agree
while your teeth rot and your bones ache-
That life is precious.
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