Babies and young saplings are silky smooth,
adorned by curls and twirls, unfurled.
But age assails and weather beats brows
to dry, and wrinkles the smooth with furrows and lines.
Twists and contortions compels yields and compliances
reshaping the surface to bumpy with knots and gnarls,
knurling a rough grip to deny the slip
that smooth young skin and wills
are prone to show when asked to follow a lead.
The rough and worn acrimony of old age,
despite the crabby, cantankerous snarls,
can be gripped and convinced to comply and yield.
It is the gnarls of age that knurls the grip.
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Author:
John Richard Anderson (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: September 3rd, 2021 00:01
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 7
- Users favorite of this poem: rebmasters
Offline)
Comments1
guess that's why plastic surgery
and age lengthening, self-experimentation
is a wining industry, in our modernity..
funny, how we hide and seek is an archaic
children's game, nowadays;
and yet, we adults
use it as our mantra for everything we dislike
about our life's realities...
regression, the chosen option for those
left waiting, for 'something to happen'...
(can't say, I was a fan of the image
your words curated in my mind
but like all medicine, if its not unpleasant
you cant trust it to work,)
thanks for sharing, dear poet
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