It reeks of muscle loosening.
And clarity lost.
It reeks of sorry vanishing.
And unknown cost.
Tiny Age Beholder.
We Are Getting Older.
We must reek of inevitability.
Of gathering moss
Reek of time unto inabilty
And universal loss
Tiny Age Beholder
We All Are Getting Older.
Oh it must be overwhelming
To ageless old stone
This ever present lingering
Stench of old bone.
Tiny Age Eternal.
An Ever-Truth Infernal.
And Every Time Beholder.
Oh We Are Getting Older.
Lauren Michaels
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/grey-hair-the-being-unto-death/
