Ghosts Of 62 Poem by Allen Ross

No one dreams of being 62
Aspiration and praise
are long forgotten parts
of any foregone phrase
The haunting has more power
and sleep holds more meaning
as one gets closer to the hour
of the final mortal cry.
Each night, slumber helps
prepare each day to die,
a dress rehearsal
in a fine night gown
for the loneliest of all
curtain calls.
And who wakes up
bright and early
to read the reviews?
Ghosts of 62.