Though my eyes my have dark circles
And my hands have become hardened and blotchy from life
My worth is valued
I have seen the discarded past of war and men
Progress accelerated through fields of gold
But at heart I am not old
I may sit by the window dressed in holiday attire
And my legs have become thin as wire
Amongst the fragrant lilies my family gave me to watch
I smell the dreaded aroma of mossback clothes
Fermenting old pudding idle and stale left in the bowl
But at heart I am not old
I hear the cries of sadness weeping into the afternoon
Have they cursed themselves for their inability to roam?
Helplessly strapped into a existence alone
Time passes with the speed of molasses
Lying beside the bed are the old mans glasses
But at heart I am not old
Human suffering lost floating in their room
In need to rest for this weary soul entombed
I can still remember parts of my younger days
My husband and the children we raised
Though I struggle to stand tall
I won’t fall
But at heart I am not old
Basic concept is haunting near,
aged wisdom in full gear.
No defined map to express the way,
wayward direction confuse the day.
A force will hold back the power of the train,
no mossback left this hour to go insane.
To say, to say, to say it again,
but no tool to release the message send.
To be able to write, the makers gift,
without proper education just gloom and drift.