The Old fella

The Old fella

It is too late now

The effort of a lifetime

A continual process

Of reinvention

Piecing himself together

Sticking plasters over

Sealing wax

Using string to prevent

Uncoordinated movement

Of wayward limbs,

Stiff as stovepipes.

Encounters that left him

With a bloody nose.

Every contact with a sharp edge

Tearing at his skin,

Bruises are worse on the inside

The ego rarely recovers

Sufficiently to fight for recognition,

As the process of survival

Becomes all-consuming.

It is too late now

The wheels have come off,

The arse-end of life

Is a war, waged against disintegration.

The air is thick with the dust of dead cells

We breathe in our own decomposition

Without benefit.

Oils and unguents are a slippery slope

Nobody can climb back.

The results of decay

Refuse to be massaged away.

Slipping off the shackles

Holding him down

Will never set him free.

He will no longer fly

Could he ever?

The weight of dread is upon him

As gravity dares to exert

Its influence

Without virtue

Or a by your leave,

It is merciless.

There is no return on soiled goods

It is not mismanagement

No organic scrub will wipe the slate clean

He is no bronze bust

To be buffed up

With furniture polish,

Bits will keep dropping off

Like an old car

With built-in obsolescence

He is out of warranty

And his lease will soon be up.