Shoulders slumped forward
Elbows drag behind the chest
Slightly tired bandy legs
Above the flat feet, that ache.

What happened, to that, once was physique
The body that was so strong
That mind that didn’t consider
Time would take such toil?

Time is wasted on the young
No doubts, crowd their thoughts
Impatient to have things achieved
The way they see it, success waiting.

When did caution whisper
At what age do people grow up
Do we grow up, or just grow old
Is ambition, only in the young’s prerogative?

Slowly, imperceivably, age creeps on
Wrinkly hands, arthritic with pain
Join, the flabby belly skin and white hair
Worse, are tremulous half-thoughts.

Complicated by unsure hearing
Mumbled, inarticulate messages
Repeated sentences, still garbled
Until, the gist is eventually grasped.

Time drifts by, in no hurry
Until you think of the wasted
Unproductive use of wakefulness
Sometimes I fail to appreciate.

Perhaps I got it wrong
Time is wasted on the old
They had opportunity, aplenty
Better, just to sit back, and watch.


This entry was posted in Autobiography, Philosophy, Poetry and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

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