Plastic bottles clatter with pills,
and old age comes with ache, wrinkles and gray.
Oh, how I miss the younger days full of thrills,
but the years add only chills.
I find myself tremble and shake all day,
and maturity ensures each sway has no frills.
I feel myself fall further and further down into the hills,
until my bed forms the perfect grave and sheet floral array.
I linger near the doorways and window sills,
and try to find an escape from finite ills.
The crackling of bones, aching in hips and stabbing pains in neck hold me in dismay,
and I huddle in the corner while the pain in my body grills.
My frame gathers in knots until my joints twist, and the skills
of my tiny fingers to unwind myself from a mess is pointless and I feel only betray
from a body disintegrating faster than my personality, until
Depression finds me and sadness spills
into my open palms and shoulders slump as the pain weighs
heavier than rooms full of plastic bottles that clatter with pills.
Oh, how I miss the younger days full of thrills.
Poetic Trials 