You with your mind would barely think,
And with your naked eyes not blink,
The thought and sight that stepping downhill,
Would need much push as pulling uphill,
When age in season knocks at your door,
And makes it crawling to your floor.
Yes, inching up, each stair in height,
Downhill with strain each step-in sight,
In your glamourous glaring mansion,
From gold and stones build in your own fashion,
Ageing to you no respect will accord,
Not matter what your gains can afford.
A times it seems you hear sounds snapping,
You pause to think the stairs are cracking,
But as your ears zoom in to sounds in hiding,
Your bones in knees expose this grinding,
Your cartilage appears is pinging away,
Knee bones grinding in their seasonal sway.
My hands, I urge aging to shake hands with,
Though sometimes my head and mind it toys with,
It comes regardless when due in time and season,
For He designs it all in his time with reason,
Reminding us how far our boat we’ve had to row,
And of our gifted seeds, what is left to sow.
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