my hands, curled claws

my steps uneven, ragged.

old before my time.


I twist the door lock

move into the darkened room

rest becomes my life.


Sounds assail my head

light assaults my flimsy eyes

I’m made of paper.


Breathing uneven

energy completely gone

I collapse, undead.


Vigor is beauty

and vitality is youth.

I’m old, I’m ugly.


My clawed fingers

curl around my aching arms.

old before my time.



M. Morehead

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