Can you smell it?
The Pine,
Smoldering beneath the hearth?
Can you taste it?
The brandy,
As it sloshes around in the snifter?
I can
It reminds me
of how young I really am.
My bones
They grow Weary
and it seems that Smoke
clouds my vision.
How??
How is it?
That one can make light,
Of the threat
Of being considered
an old fuddy duddy at 23?
But alas,
To each their own timeline
And when my day comes
I shan't lay in my deathbed
Whispering
Babbling
And drooling
Like a senile grandfather
Who cannot remember,
Who his children are
Much less who he is.
I shall pass into
The promise of my fathers
Singing
Singing so loudly
that no one within a hundred miles
will be able to remember
Who their children are.
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Submission Name: prematurity
You're going down singing - that is one hell of a way to go. It's scary, though, the thought of age (and you've got it at 23 - imagine how bad it will grow by the time you crawl along to my age...
), and it is good to be resilient.