Seventy-Five Poem by Kendell Cochrane

You'll be Seventy five,
What a number,
An evolving digit,
But Is that
All you see?

I see grey,
Yes
Lots of it,
For I am
Not blind
Nor naive,
But so what?

I see where
The crows have
Landed with heavy
Feet,
I see scars left
By both living
And inanimate objects
Lacking boundaries,
Or were you the one?
Either way you learned
And grew.

We are time capsules,
Housing memories,
Love and light.
Only deeply explored
By a few,
Though allowing others
To merely peek past
The bronzed lid,
Left ajar by kindness,
For not everyone wants
To take the time
To hear you read
Your life scroll,
Curiously tinkering
With pieces a long
Ways travelled from
1941 to now,
But who are
They anyway.

You blot creams
Upon the softened skin
Under those beautiful,
Kaleidoscopic eyes,
Because society gets
Caught up with the outsides
When we know all
Too well our inside
Is what's really beautiful,
But it doesn't matter,
Right?

Do you actually
FEEL old or
have you fallen
into the belief
That you should.

Does the fire
Not still burn
As brightly as
It did when
You were 17,
Or have you
Neglected to
Stoke it with the
Bellow of personal passions,
Thinking the yesteryears
of youth are now
But a distantly
Painful matter
Of acceptance,
But why?

When you are
Young you are
a naked canvas
Craving pastel experience,
Years and years of
Beautiful layers is
What you become,
What your journey
Is about.

Time only blossoms
The potential beauty you
Choose to nourish
In every situation.