Ramblings of an old man

Drop for drop

it should stop

when the cistern

becomes an urn.

Vessel grim and churning

harvests the burning

and we keep going

yes, we do.

Dustdrops dissolve

in the quiet surf

become a salve

neath the wharf.

Liquid stones

melting bones

trampled ashes

thesaurus dashes

bloody old crones.

Growing fear

of the nadir

the end is near

the end is near

the last frontier

where all things cohere.

Irises found in the next of kin

flaws in the depths of the skin

and the ceiling reels

the next funeral steels

yet we cover our ears to the din

for all things spin

one and two

one and two

and whirl within

effect and reason

of our chagrin.

Faults and imbrues of our forefathers

fuck us up into a spot of bother

and we pay our dues to our sons and daughters

conscientious saboteurs

hurtling topsy-turvy in the venerable turds.

It really is a rotten business, getting old is.