it is not the passing summers
but the steep uneven stairs
that make my body shiver
though the years have softened
my bones hold a quiet rebellion
against chairs that kiss the ground
my eyes blur the tiny whispers
on the pages i once loved
aging is not the storm’s roar
it is the slow steady drizzle
slipping under the doorframe
settling into unlit corners
i am not afraid of time’s pull
but of life becoming smaller
measured in inches and aches
mapped by what is out of reach
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Author:
gray0328 (
Offline) - Published: August 16th, 2025 12:47
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 21
- Users favorite of this poem: sorenbarrett, Cheeky Missy, Damaso
Offline)
Comments2
A lovely write on the process that I have grown to know too well. A fave
A lovely write of the process I am currently undertaking, enjoyed the read
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