Seasons Without Sun Poem by Clint Magnum

What are you waiting for.
Soon enough you'll be bent,
Insular.
Losing your grip,
On even the old age pension.
Waiting to die, you'll ache,
Offer up your imaginary soul,
For one week of youthful opportunity,
Hell, even one hour.
Days when bones don't bicker with gravity,
Muscles and blood agree to date again.
You felt lost today old man.
You will never be as young as you are now.
Pain defines,
As sure as reality bites.
The mist will clear,
You'll probably continue squinting,
Predictably aching for one week,
Hell, even one hour,
Just to waste it all over again.