THe TRouble is...(Poetry)
04th September 2016
Foolish Youth believes itself immortal
it rarely gets to grips with age and pain.
Death’s a shadow stalking other people.
Youth’s summer stretches hopeful — free from rain.
Time passes and quite suddenly it’s Autumn —
nothing now is half as fresh and bright.
The flower that was perfect loses colour
and doubt begins to whisper in the night.
Winter threatens — skies turn grey and colder.
Youth never dreamed that things would come to this.
The body fails. The Reaper haunts one shoulder
with odours of regret and vintage piss.
Youth never noticed how the clock was ticking —
back then there seemed to be a world of time
but seasons fly and all too soon it’s kicking
some bucket out of nowhere — past its prime.
The trouble is Youth spurned all thoughts of dying —
denying Age a foothold for so long
while creams abetted mirrors bent on lying
frail Youth has withered — proving itself wrong.
it rarely gets to grips with age and pain.
Death’s a shadow stalking other people.
Youth’s summer stretches hopeful — free from rain.
Time passes and quite suddenly it’s Autumn —
nothing now is half as fresh and bright.
The flower that was perfect loses colour
and doubt begins to whisper in the night.
Winter threatens — skies turn grey and colder.
Youth never dreamed that things would come to this.
The body fails. The Reaper haunts one shoulder
with odours of regret and vintage piss.
Youth never noticed how the clock was ticking —
back then there seemed to be a world of time
but seasons fly and all too soon it’s kicking
some bucket out of nowhere — past its prime.
The trouble is Youth spurned all thoughts of dying —
denying Age a foothold for so long
while creams abetted mirrors bent on lying
frail Youth has withered — proving itself wrong.