Clint Eastwood

Clint stands, a silhouette carved by time,  

his voice gravel, echoing through brittle air.  

“The light bites,” he says, “sharp fangs."    

Eyes squint not at wonder, but survival.  

Bones creak like doors left open too long,  

stubborn joints rusted by years, refusing ease.  

Feet hesitate, calculating every shift forward,  

each step a deliberate act of rebellion.  

“Even breathing feels like hauling iron,”  

he admits, his chest rising slow, deliberate.  

This is not the lie of golden twilight,  

not the cozy fantasies we frame for age.  

It’s the weight of decay carrying memory,   

where mornings are heavier than they once were.  

His words are sans sugar, sans illusion,  

but laced with that stubborn will to stand.  

Here is truth: aging doesn’t ask permission.  

We all will lean, fold into ourselves, eventually.  

And still, he fights for the upright moments—  

a man battling gravity, on his terms.