Getting old, a curse, it seems,
The body weak, the mind a dream.
The days pass by, a blur of time,
The youth, a memory, left behind.
The body withers, the mind decays,
A shell of who we were, in our youth's heyday.
Getting old, a descent into darkness,
A fading away, of who we were, no harness.
YOU ARE READING
Compression, A List Of Poems.
Poésiewritten using other people's perspectives. I wanted to be in their shoes. So I'll compress my overflowing feelings and write them letter by letter.
