Gout torment the geriatric
leaning on his walking stick
strained by a tottering pace
his back bent with years spent
the grey locks has its tales to tell
and the wrinkles on the brow
his shadow is a mere specter
of the frail frame he wears
bereft with the failing senses
he dodders on in senility
reminiscent of his salad days
beckoning from the yesteryear
He treads on his final leg
down the life’s last lane
No comments:
Post a Comment