Old Age

The creeping and sedulous seize 
of Jeunesse, the forlorn of wile and
piddled knavery has culminated 
an end, the squinting strait of
love and romance have succumbed 
to reticent reveille, the frost of yesteryear 
has frozen the reverent ground of trust, 
there's no lightly treading over the ashen 
cinders of unkempt dreams, the disassembly
of memory and misplaced aspirations that have 
moored away any breadth of reconciliation 
between recourse and salvage; now, old age
has censured any amends, recounting the 
missteps and idled solitary have lodged and 
immersed any and all disillusion of purpose, 
the gifting disheartenment of clutching lost
ambitions only remind you of the 
disembodiment between mortal frailty and 
and divine failure. 

- John Hardesty