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Monday, April 2, 2012

The Old


It is darker than normal
on this windy day
stone wears grain by grain
even new leaves are ripped from branches
as the air sneaks through tiny cracks
forced by invisible fingers
that sing in ghostly moans
the fireplace flue squeaks
as even here something tries to get in

it is The Old
that pries the gaps
between the outside and in
it comes for us
laying some extra fat here
a wrinkle there
a forgotten set of keys
god knows where

cracks open in the finish
of the furniture
a bit of paint peels unnoticed
and this lessened light
is pondered by a murky brain
to suggest that cataracts
begin to form on drier eyes

on these days The Old prowls
to scratch its grim messages
across this place
where even the water
slows its acheful meander
as its joints creak
through a rocky canyon

On such days I am cranky
enough to think I can
argue with this vagabond
that splits the ages
into torn down walls
and roofs that sag

The Old laughs
as it turns
hopeful into hopeless
I am your future it says
in a voice filled with chasms
and featureless plains of sand
I am what you fought to get
away from in your mother's womb
I am the torn skin of your first cut
I am the regret of lost friendships
from senseless words
I am the given on days
of sadness and rankor
I am The Old who tears your pages
and turns them to dust
I am these words
whose meaningful gaps
widen into the misunderstood

And as my wind sings to you
you close your eyes
for the last time
for the very last time

this is my victory


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