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May 28, 2004 - A poem about Age

Old Age

Here I lie in patient’s well.
Twixt the weal of the hammer,
and the woe of the nail.
Wary of rust stained leaf
and dusk cold ground,
between my restless slumber,
and this shadow’s tail.
The rush of life slowed,
brings forth an other companion,
timeworn through dark eyes,
all dormant torpor stilled.
It is true - he does not come alone.


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