It Gets Us All In The End

Arid is my wit in age
Barren of bright ideas
Carrion Crows pick my brains
Dust left behind in layers.

Edging closer to the grave
Failing sight and hearing
Growing frailer by the week
Hopelessly careering

Into gloom and grumpiness
Jousting with memory
Kicking cats, cursing prats…Oh
Lead me to the cemet’ry.

Minuscule my mind for patients
Non-existent and devoid
Of understanding data
Preceptors all destroyed;

Questions needing answers
Reside inside my head, yet
Still it would be handy
To ask them all instead of

Utterly forgetting them, then
Vehemently denying
Wandering absently around
Xanthic faced and crying.

Yes it’s such a rotten trick
ZAP! You’re now a geriatric.