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Old Age
January 14, 2021
I worry about growing old.
It's always been a big fear of mine.
When the yellow paint starts to chip away like my old, frail skin,
And the tip starts to dull,
Only to eventually snap off.
Dull and bruised and worn out,
That's what I imagine it's like.
Everything becomes old and wrinkly,
And the combination of emerald and swamp green at the end,
Starts to die out.
It's no longer fresh and new and smooth,
It's old and sluggish and tedious.
You can’t make it new again.
And by the end, when you feel it's no longer useful,
You throw it out.
© Rosalee M., Lowell, MA
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This is another peom I wrote for english. I compared old age to the whilting of a pencil.