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

Copyright © 2012 by Barry G. Wick
Follow this link to a recording of the author reading the poem.



xxxx