LAMENT OF DECLINATION

A poetry about the reflection of the old age

So this’s the doom age they say? Everything seem to creep on,
the one thing promising is the retirement sum.
Today the grays are dominant and make-do is becoming useless,
huh, these mixed feelings— all at once makes me excited, nervous, stressed.

Time has certainly quieted… no make-do, gave up, slowed,
the lines are frightening, skin soggy, bowed.
Nothing a do, yet takes forever,
to the simplest whatever.

Finally seeing the dawning,
every unfolding new morning,
never before…nothing else…an odd chapter begins,
that play with the lazy day, and I, succumbed to its gin.
And it puts me to sleep and wakes me up again,
from some frightening sounds of an old time reign.

And yesterday, the mirror, like everything else, gave a scare,
I stop admiring it times ago… for actual fear,
of seeing this dreary, pitiful existence.
Eyes wet, puffy… and the bags, take residence,
in this shaky, fragile, old sad.
Oh what the ages can do… enough bad,

still with some pride and will,
a struggle to control the ill.
Drooling speeches, drooling…continuous aches move about,
the interminable disease of age I fought,
desperate, to hold onto a drifting sanity.
But lately there’s nothing to add to society,

or to the people around me.
Who the heck they? I ponder in delirium,
Are they my kin? Whooa, I’m journeying closely home,
to a time, a state, a place where only loosers go.
Twice a kid, the good book I think said so,

oh, this is how it feels— to be totally vulnerable… helpless,
Christ…I wailed out…what a mess.
Huh? where’s all the fun now?!
Oh darn… retirement finally come…