G-olden Years.

G-olden Years.

Waking to pain, all to often,
a wave of sadness engulfs.
Reviewing the potential for distraction
as the prospect of another day looms.

It’s just no fun anymore.
Not much left to enjoy.
Gone is the mystery, the anticipation.
Hand dealt, cards played, all bets are off.

Now just a window shopper
shuffling along the high street of life.
Each day an uphill trudge toward
the goal; the darkness of sleep.

Every fair encounter
once blooming with sensual potential,
only brings a stinging grief,
fearfully endured in sad silence.

Options drop like autumn leaves,
without the hope of another spring.
This last passage drags by
in a slurry of boredom and regret.

Horrified by reflections that shout,
“This is what they see, this is you.”
aching body once coveted, now covered,
fits like someone else’s coat

Held to life by the love of others,
the kindest thing would hurt the most.
This descent feels like a climb while
searching for a way to survive today.

It’s just no fun anymore.

Written by Francis de Aguilar © May 2015


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