Age is the wage
we earn while we learn
a vast and vague memory of
friends, to the end
and lost days
a haze of beautiful silence.
and heavy winds,
that would break my back, if only they could.
and daggers, dull and sharp
that would end me,
if they only would.
And the silence
oh, the silence
I strain to hear
my blessed voices, lingering but
too long gone
The icy fire
of all that haunts me
the ethereal ghost
that taunts me as if I could
live on
beyond its voice
it pays the debt
my soul requires, not in end with dark foreboding
or glorious sunlight
but instead
with mirrors
I've been holding
all along
Done.
Finally.
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