Gnarls Knurl the Grip to Fight

after "Do not go gentle into that good night", by Dylan Thomas Age can not scour away the furrowed gnarls time obeyed, Nor mask the snarls, gouged as trenches on brows. Grace knurls the grip that time has long betrayed, To swage wrath and fury to a form that age endows. Grace reveres the knurled design that time has hewn, Not as a defect or flaw, but as grip etched by yen of years, Like old trees twisted, contorted, too far gone to prune. It’s grace that cradles calloused scars, not fears. It’s the gnarls of age that knurls the last grasp of rage to rebel against the curse of dusk’s encroaching bite. Stroking the rebellious snarls that ring on anvil stage, as loved ones bear the thumps and flails of the plight. It's the gnarls of age that knurls the grip to fight, against the blight in the coming of good night.