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PostPosted: Mon Jun 26, 2017 9:27 pm
by Saturn

The young have all;
Their lithe skin is
Wrapped up with a
Bulletproof, agile
Possibility and blows
Bounce off entirely.
They are kevlar-clad
With such hopes and
Dreams that age is
No more real than
Death, or disease.

I can see the median,
The grim halfway
Checkpoint, the gun
Totting guard tower,
Its searchlights sweep
And spotlight me now.
Frozen in the blaze
I'm neither wholly
In the darkness or
Bathed in the beam.

I'm a limpet, whose
Shallow pool quivers
A leak and senses a
Tide incoming that
Will scoop suckers
And entanglements
Away in a very trice.

So I wait, frozen and
Unaccompanied by a
Hope, or expectation
To guide me through
The entry point of
A terminal I never
Packed a bag for:
The carousel is an
Empty track. I am
Not a willing or an
Experienced guest -
My baggage is all
Carried in personal
Luggage, I allow,
I avowed to, I owe
That in every part,
In every crevice,
Nerve or artery,
Vein or organ I've
Stowed a more
Cumbersome and
Heavy weight than
Can be reasonably
Expected to hold.