I grow old, I grow old
My bones shall shiver in the cold
With sere flesh draped, corrupt with fever,
The biting frost grows ever bold.
The cherry flush fades from lip and cheek
Defiant eyes grow dim and meek
The lightest touch will send a-tremble,
What the senile mind could put to sleep
Vital blood rushing through vital veins
Cool, thins and stagnantly pools
In spider’s silk under papery skin
Creeping up my withered limbs
At the summit of youth, first
Have I felt the horror of winter’s sway,
Beheld death’s valley spread beneath
While withered trunks line my forward way.
I first dreaded then, that breath of cold
And the thought that I, too, shall grow
old,
From the creases that run from my eyes
Etched from the labours I have sold.
Then the luxuriant locks would fade
A slender figure would engorge with time
Feasted upon the ruins of the years,
A violet fast fading, a sweetness fast
wasting
This joy a fruit that cloys at the tasting
Washed with the bitterness of aging.
