The Journey's End

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
Gather ye rosebuds while ye may...

Submitted: December 18, 2011

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Submitted: December 18, 2011

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alt
His pace at 86, now sluggish,
his balance off
he walks like a party drunkard,
feet skim the floor,
as though they were stuck
in some glutinous muck.
His skin spotted, not smooth,
and clumpy
against his will.
Muscles have waned
to waif-like prunes,
idle too long.
~~~
In his youth
a funhouse mirror
was wiser then he assumed,
good at predicting distorted views
like a fortune teller with sharp ends
through a misleading masque
he willingly paid for.
~~~
But now
he's simply unable to unravel
the viperous poison
in his body and mind,
being supplied
by the malicious vines of age
that in full-fledged
abandon have
strategically, and unkindly,
spread unhindered,
as he takes another fall
or names escape him,
one by one.
~~~
His nurse Linda is young,
caring, and tenderly attractive,
but his designated room
is foreign, its bed spongy,
and the pillow unfamiliar.
The chair is comfortable,
yet, rigid and inflexible.
She listens to his stories
of days gone by he's still able
to recall...
his childhood, his friends,
and his beloved Helen
now gone two years--
(I told you I'd move the moon and the stars
for you, didn't I baby!)
She always knew how
to handle everything
with such grace,
and most of all,
what night clothes
to buy that were his favorite.
(I want to keep my hubby warm
and happy, don't I?)
But he can tell that Linda
underneath it all, is uninterested.
~~~
She comes in at the same time
each night and assists him
into those warm, smooth, pajamas,
then slips on his perfect wool slippers,
knowing all along,
from experience,
that sadly,
very soon...
their destined for the Salvation Army.


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