fine wine

I aged another year and that terrifies the living bejeebus out of me

Irrational fear of growing older
fear of meaning nothing
beyond the number of winters
which my heart has beaten for,
beyond the number of breaths
my heavy lungs have heaved,
and the number of halfbaked
thoughts running through my brain

 

Irrational fear of growing older
fear of meaning nothing
but the words on the tongue
sickly sweet toxic molasses
heard by none but oneself
whispered in wholest darkness
holding secrets untold


irrational fear of growing older
fear of meaning nothing
beyond the withering bones
that frame the skin
transparent and pallid

young
and
rich
and
wild

everyone else is so blind

The End

14 comments about this poem Feed