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the lament of the old
I don’t move so much these days.
But I am more aware of movement.
My chair feels like an island
In a sea of people.
The flood of bodies ebbing and flowing,
Like the ocean’s tides.
My own body is
Rusted joints,
Lost screws,
Rotting and fraying
At the seams.
But my mind has only become more alive
And it moves with speed and grace.
My thoughts leap and gallop
Like gazelles,
Flutter aimlessly
Like butterflies,
Dive and splash
Like dolphins.
All the things my body can no longer do.
I am confined by this cage of flesh
Which I once revered as a powerful vessel
that obeyed my every whim and fancy.
Alas, it is more stubborn now,
like an ornery mule that must be
cajoled and prodded into motion.
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