20 April 2012
A greying landscape, wind-beaten and weathered.
Past September years, with the pain of you still fresh,
In November minds I sit, hating every breath.
Death comes slow, like a watched pot,
And I am left, not simmering.
Age aching in every bone.
Not losing you in the autumn fog that draws in,
Yet grey matter becomes greyer,
And I am losing myself.
For its own bereavement I hear my sanity cry
And I am left, waiting to die.
Golden Years • Opuss № I