Old Bones

These hands too old for revenge
too young for suicide.
These legs too old to carry the weight
too young to bury.
This brain too slow to carry my thoughts
too weak to follow logical paths.

Black dressed and hooded death stalks,
unlike some he doesn't suggest chess.
That would give me a fighting possibility
and this death doesn't give second chances.
Oxygen squeaks despairingly into the shrinking lungs
and I have forgotten more than I remember.




Poetry by Wumbulu The PoetBay support member heart!
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Written on 2017-04-19 at 10:09

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Yah, such is life. Old bones squeal constantly.
Have a great day.
2017-04-19