Archive
09/11/11
Growing
When it grows over the edges of the flesh's earthly garden, Crawls and creeps and cascades and crashes beyond the threshold Of normal life's most abnormal expectations, Growing old becomes one weed with ten thousand bleeding roots. It's then, with rebellious, vicious, insatiable insolence, That it disrespects, disdains, disregards matters of the heart, The tenuous threads fighting to keep sanity anchored to its pinhead, And decides to share a bed with incontinence, deafness, blindness, Cozy up to valetudinarianism, marry dementia.
Growing old is a jolted scarecrow on a bare high-tension wire, A groaning weather vane pointing, insanely, toward the ground, In a windless tornado on the outskirts of darkness, Where the tumult of utter solitude and silence Set up a violent caterwauling, in the hollow bones' brittle twigs, That frightens the life out of even the dead, the unborn. When you grow so old that your dust and clay don't know you, Take refuge in the breathless earth, Praying your soul won't assume another shape, you are death.
09/11/11
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