At 64

 

At 64,

The pages no longer turn at will,

The knees no longer salute,

The mind carries on

As if yesterday mattered,

As if tomorrow began anew.

 

At 64,

Worries takeover,

As tomorrow encroaches;

Surmise sets

On what tomorrow will be.

 

At 64,

The sunrise still finds its setting,

After today sings its songs;

Tomorrow’s edge of existence

Creeps in to cut another day into cliché.

 

 

 

 

 

© Jennifer A. Johnson, 2017, All Rights Reserved

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