I expect to grow old, yes.
It breaches softly, the creeping sense,
like a leaking faucet, drip, pause,
drip—moments pooling into certainty.
Routine stacks its bricks around me,
deadlines chime, the clock grins wide,
and “someday” becomes a quiet thief.
But then sunlight cuts me open.
Through the kitchen window it spills,
ricochets off greasy cups, stacked plates—
birds scream for nothing, for everything.
The breeze mutinies my lazy lungs.
And suddenly I burn with knowing.
This—the now—this endless minute ends.
The dishes don’t matter as much
as the wind, the light, the heat.
My chest stretches, cracks, unzips itself,
gasping for more of what vanishes.
I want it to drown me; let it,
each cell aching, a waterfall’s flood.
All too soon this moment will rot,
dry under the sun like old fruit.
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Author:
gray0328 (
Offline) - Published: October 10th, 2025 10:14
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 12
- Users favorite of this poem: sorenbarrett
Offline)
Comments2
Powerful work.
Thanks brother I always appreciate your feedback and support
It is the last two lines of this poem that enchants me the most the image is perfect (All too soon this moment will rot dry under the sun like old fruit) And how so in so many ways. A fave my friend
Thanks Soren my brother I appreciate your feedback
You are most welcome
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