Old

We grow from seeds of purity
from datum and perfection,
then flaws rust in and grip their fists
to bleed our youth and hope to flakes,
of aged pity and 'experience',
leaving a mellow shell that recalls
a distant, other-worldly childhood
and awaits petrification with wintered tears,
the thin thin silent air of the ending years.

© Mark Sheeky. Permission is required for reproduction.