A letter to the decrepit.

I wish I were you.

at the end of life,

staring into the abyss.

I wish we could trade places and you could once again feel the rush of youth whilst carrying my weight.

bend those knees that won’t break.

and I don’t write this to be rude

to be true

I am a shrew

with a tendency to be crude.

this is not a note

I do not yet lay upon my deathbed

but maybe just a wish

or a dream

to cure all that ails me

maybe, I’m just a fool who hasn’t quite learned how to breathe the fire of life

it overwhelms me and gets the best of me

but I stare now into her beautiful brown eyes

her many wrinkles etched into her leather skin

I watch curiously as she looks away

her smile displaced

a glimpse of her toils, washing over her

but the sun shines, immaculately

turning her skin to flowers

blooming so beautifully

a bouquet in my hands

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