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.
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