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Monday, July 5, 2010

We grow old, we ...

Intimations of Mortality
by GC Smith

My joints complain

Complaints not against
that strong young athlete
who pushed feats of prowess
much beyond endurance limits
but rather against wear of time

My brain falters

It frequently farts
suffering nascent dementia
Irish style, remembering only grudges
while stumbling again to find my own name
and knowing that your name is lost to the ether

My heart speaks

Its murmurs
not pretty poetry
nor deathless prose
but rather coded messages
about time's inexorable march

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