steps much slower than before
as time creeps up upon my door
trying to sing a happy song
wondering where time went wrong

pulling

In fifty years we will be nothing more than a mass of wrinkled weathered skin and fragile bones

Our memories and stories

I gaze at my bathroom mirror,
And looking back at me,
Are the telltale signs of wrinkles,
And gray hair their company.

My knees

COULD IT BE I’M GETTING OLD

Age is a thing we all must face;

We’ll all grow old some day

unless, of course,

Twisted just like gray lovers under the covers
I will love you until the end
And we will dry up like prunes
The paper stickers