He used to be young.
He used to run, just for the fun of it.
He used to dance as if it was nothing.
He could leap and bend and jump, just because it felt good.
But now as I watch him, he can't even walk in a straight line.
He doesn't know his line is not straight, he thinks he is walking normally.
He looks like something that would break if I pushed him over.
He can't run anymore, something would shatter or pop out.
He is frail, like a stick, but he doesn't walk with one.
I don't know when that kind of frailty begins to emerge,
but it makes me want to do more yoga.
And despite all of that, he still looks happy. I don't know why,
but he still looks happy...
- Adam Oakley
YOU ARE READING
These Poems
PoetryThese poems, I don't know where they come from, I don't know who they are for, or if they are for anyone. Perhaps they are just wild musings with no aim, Or perhaps they will touch someone, heal someone, or take that pain out of them like a surgery...
