Rembrandt, 'The Last Self- Portrait' Poem by peter cooley

And Time, which I had thought to hold within my hand,
this portrait shows, always was holding me.
When did Time start to extend such fierce grip?
Or is it tightening skin around my eyes
I can't see unless I look past this mirror,
a web each side, a web to catch me soon
when I begin to fall... when I lose count,
the pieces of a net washed out to sea,
one with the waves when finally I go down.
I know they follow; I wake to their light.
Rembrandt, I'm aging fast. I am past your age
you live through eternally, sixty-three.

You died. I'll die. I have an immortality
right now through years you're bringing me. And you?
What kind of immortality can I offer?