PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Can anyone still live there, and like that?---in

that structually deteriorating hovel, in

which the roof is no more sturdy than the floor,

although the walls still continue to confine the

lone inhabitant who is unable to escape them (as

they continue to close in by the most miniscule increments).

Even the weather, there, is affected:  the

days dismal---skies the color, and as cold, as steel, and

unable to release any rain.  And the clouds continue to

linger, as long seasonal stars can be obscured.  And

that old fool, whose Poetry no one bothers to read any more,

believes he can still summon the beauties of summer

sunlight and starlight in a grandeur no cloud can obfuscate.

His memories of these are exquisitely detailed,

elegantly organized, and efficiently powerful.  The present

reality almost yields to their eminence:  but, guess what,

folks?  The final, and most recalcitrant joke, has yet to spring:

Senility is coming---steadily, stealthily approaching, as

inevitable as the relentless, microscopic degradation of the

smallest and most basic components of his flesh.  Soon,

he will not remember even his name; and, with that gone,

his cherished remembrances will have lost their center of

gravity, careening wildly out of their customary orbits, and

hurling into an uncharted space that will always be,

frustratingly, just beyond the extent of his reach.

Starward