My Time Will Submit To Days Of White Hair And Wrinkles. - Poem by Michael Gale
Look, look real close and deep at my well wrinkled face...
Not young anymore, just an old, old disgrace.
Will time win out, over my mere mortal race? ...
Will death soon greet me at my doorstoop's place?
Long and longer i yearn to live longer and happy...
That idea to others might seem kind of stupid and sappy.
Observe now as the age of time, paints it's strokes to my entire aged canvass...
I cannot cope, or even just have this.
Where, or when will i crawl off, to die? ...
Where or when, will i be forced to lie?
My body's parts will submit to time's urge to cease to work...
My body will strain and shake, and even quiver and stutter and jerk.
Hair loss and some strands will change color to purest of white.
Weakening of the muscles will sadden to me to never delight.
The counting of the days to death's courting ways...
Is how my future is forced in rerun like replays.
Now i am doomed, to soon prepare, to leave and part...
I've done my best, i've left behind subtle hints of my lifely, living like art.
I am now gone...
I have sadly departed.
I am no more, but a soon forgotten dream...
This fact to all, might seem obscene and seen as a long losing
battle, while swimming in a torrential drowning flood or stream.
I am no more...
I am now tired and sadly sore.
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