When Old is not Gold.

Missing notes of loosened strings,

Fading shades from worn-out brushes,

and, ticking seconds by His watch,

I call these dregs of life.

Disarrayed figments of monotonous breaths

fill my canvass of penniless life.

My eyes see darkness within

and ears hear echoes afar,

Hapless in a game of rules

I lie.

Count my hair, you stop at three.

Teeth, you never start.

Shades, I have is all of grey.

The self is alone, no shadows near,

I hear myself cry.

Old is not always gold.

Old is sometimes cold

rarely bold,

and frequently sold

in cheques to white blocks.

Old age, spare me your troubles

Or hear me swear,

with this little air in me left.

You tear me apart

and suckle me shriveled,

for

Ruthlessness is your father.