Words do not roll off my tongue as easily as they use to
There is gravel in my voice, my hand trembles when I write.
A flight of stairs winds me,
climbing a ladder is madness.
...

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Grown Old

Words do not roll off my tongue as easily as they use to
There is gravel in my voice, my hand trembles when I write.
A flight of stairs winds me,
climbing a ladder is madness.

I tell no one about these things
or how long it takes to type this poem.
I'm afraid to let them know
I have grown old.

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