Age purges us of our innocence
so easily over the years, only noticing
when illness extracts the vibrancy
once guiding our once crafty songs;
Age tell us when and where but not how
she will twist our thoughts and skew
our memories, letting confusion be
the only path on which our feeble legs can walk;
Age loves us like a wanton whore
whose succulent body teases our blood
while our enslaved, hot muscles attempt
to perform as imprinted, but fail;
giving us the key to escape but no lock
or door or future into which we can peer
or retreat should we decide to stay.
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