When did the hills grow steeper?
when did the roads grow longer?
when did my walks grow slower?
when did I get less stronger?
When did the nights grow shorter,
while days flew by much faster?
when did my music become passé,
drowned out by raucous laughter?
When did the muscles grow so weak?
when did work become a struggle?
now all I want to do is sleep,
or, with my wife, to snuggle.
When did my friends just pass away,
in the restless maze of living?
when did the world become so cold,
and a little less forgiving?
The old things now have withered,
they fade and give way to the new;
but nothing's new under the sun,
only your thoughts and you.
Comments about this poem (Age. by dave lessard )
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