Some days you just feel old.

Some days you just feel old.

Dying began long ago,

Even before birth.

Nothing remains,

Everything evolves,

Reaches an end point,

Whether in maturity

Or prematurely,

In a welter of absurdity.

It is hard to parody tragedy,

But ending is a never avoided

Once in a lifetime

Proposition,

Whatever the young may think

When they play with mortality

As if it was a play station.

Deterioration

Is a mysterious affair,

Some days

Are still as bright as the first.

With a thirst that rages for life,

Even when the flesh

Is less than fresh

And struggles to comply

With demand.

Those days still fly

But they leave a mark

On the way down,

The after burn

Needs a longer recovery.

Other days are grey with longing,

Blackened with foreboding,

Heavy limbed,

Wading in fat air

As brown as lentil soup,

Unbranded

At a knock down price.

Drowning in health conscious

Sterility,

Bored to death,

By good intentions

And the predictable stench

Of decay,

As happens to all,

In the end.

Come what may.