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Decay

 


Life seems not always worth the fight
to summon up the strength for morning’s light.
The salmon knows – all will and muscle spent –
after the last leaping fence of water
life is lent.

So quick the muscles strength to drain,
the ear to lose the softer tones,
the eye to lose the brightness of each day.
Age creeps so swiftly up the brittle bones,

the flesh no longer quick to mend
retains its scars in brackish blend,
lined face, veined hands lifted to pray,
expose each painful morning
life’s decay.

Black hatted men in black tailed coats
stepping over each last granite page
knowing the dead weight of the defeated beast
parade our fears inside another’s cage.

 

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