Song of An Old Man
I don't sing of myself--
not anymore,
not since I lost my looks,
2 inches in height, plus
half my strength--and
God knows how many
millions of brain cells!
There's no joyous song in
aging, there's nothing to look
forward to, unless you like
the idea of dying, and who
would? Even the desperate
see death only as surcease
to pain, not an end in itself,
not a destination....
No, there's no upside to
growing old, not like there is
to growing up into a world
malleable, a bit magical and
scary too, but scary in the
good way: like getting on a
roller coaster even though
you have a fear of heights....
No, there's just not a damn
thing to look forward to, or
so you think--and so you
tend to look back, to try
to live again as a youth in
memory and in dreams--
Ah, dreams! How you cherish
your dreams now day-life,
so called 'real life', becomes
so slow,
so dull,
so monotonous,
that every day, EVERY
DAMN DAY seems like a
Sunday--only you don't
get dressed up and go
to church....
BUT in you dreams you are
sometimes young again,
sometimes wise and even
brave on occasion--all is
diamond in your dreams,
the dreams of an old man,
the songs of an old man....
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