Age

In a state of disarray,

hunched,

squatting by the corner,

with the soft light pouring in 

from the open doors of the bar.

dismal and insignificant,

putrid and repellent.

Dancing shadows,

enter the prancing jester,

mockingly jovial,

unwary and nonchalant

of the maimed stranger,

crippled by the desolation of youth.

As the world walks on,

eyes momentarily linger

with disregard

at the sorry state,
reviled with the innate ugliness
of the withering soul,

filled with revolt,
disgust,

and self-assuring denial.

how one regards
the disfigured
with such venom
and even more so
when one rejects
the imminent reality
of the final falling grains of sand
in the hourglass
of one's life.

Age, how dost thou plunge me into melancholy,
regret and wishful thinking?