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I am better.
But not the same.
Diminished
From what I was before.
Perhaps this is old age.
A thousand Lilliputians,
Have secured their ropes around me,
Drawn down the flesh of my face.
Dug trenches around
The ghost of my exhausted smile.
The quicksand drag of the grave
Unties my shoelaces.
Having stumbled a few steps in,
A gravity guides my feet,
Tucked tightly in the winding sheet.
Maybe there's no more easy days,
Hope close at hand,
Now all gone beyond the pale,
What's left is the futile fight,
The dull ache of awakening.
Maybe that last glass of wine
Still full
On the nightstand the next morning
Will keep mocking my ambitions
From the night before.
Thoughts recycle this pained drama.
It's strange to feel you'll never be
Quite who you were before,
To see a stranger in the mirror
Mindlessly brushing your teeth.
As a wounded dying animal
Looks out at you accusingly,
Sinking further deep down
Into the depths
Of your eyeholes.
I imagine there's strength
In seeing your blood
Still warm in your children.
But I wouldn't burden another creature
To wear this guilty mask.
I didn't believe my mother and father
Would hang on as long as they did.
Up every morning with a sigh,
Somehow remain alive,
Asleep leaving on the light.
It happens all over again again.
It's difficult to think of doing anything else
When living is all you've known.
No one teaches us how to die.
To stop doing what we've always done.
Everyone mills around the station,
Mumbling around in a ring,
Collapsed overcoats sitting upon the benches,
Suitcases spilling threadbare undergarments
And long sleeved dress shirts.
All uncertain of their ticket status,
Compulsively wandering
Through empty pockets,
Occasionally wondering
How they ended up here.
Wasn't there something else we were once doing,
More important than this tired waiting?
