I once thought much on growing old,
Of those last angry steps.
I once shook fists in impotence:
Against mortality.

And yet I find, as wrinkles spread,
And life remains obscure,
It isn't fame or strands of grey,
That move me,
As I age.
Nor is it thought of future naught,
One day,
To be.

It's not the world of one,
Of self,
Nor bipolarity.
It’s something better left unsaid,
Left thankless empathy.

It's you!
My love,
My friend,
My foe:
A virus, learning,
Doomed and slow.

It's you!
A face,
Your smile,
You blink:
“Two vast and trunkless legs of stone.”


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