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.
-
Author:
gray0328 (
Offline) - Published: July 13th, 2026 11:04
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 16
- Users favorite of this poem: sorenbarrett
Offline)
Comments2
A lovely write Gray and tribute to my favorite actor, director and producer. A man of no excuses as wise as he is talented. Well written and a fave
My favorite actor also. He is aging as gracefully as possible. Thank You Soren
You are most welcome Gray
Yes, I could vote for Clint too, despite his passion for guns.
Hasn't used one as far as I can tell in his fight against ageing recognised from your write and for which I can feel a great empathy.
My family owns and operates a shooting range and legal gunshop for law abiding citizens, so I have a different take on legally owned firearms. But thank you sharing your feedback Dave.
And I opt out, as I\'m too tired to start the debate anymore.
Generally enjoy the reads you provide, though.
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