Young

• Appu Koreth, Grade 7
• Poetry
• 2022

His past turns older every second, older, older, older,
His death creeps nearer every second, nearer, nearer, nearer,
His eyes grow duller every second, duller, duller, duller,
Every second, happy days he'd had gets pulled away from his mind; every memory gets torn in half,
What is he thinking?

His mind is a blackhole: nothing that enters comes back
A streak of grey chokes the black out of his hair,
His skin, a battlefield of scars and wrinkles,
his eyes, conquered by confusion and sadness,
His mind, a world where a fountain of wisdom is suffocated by an ocean of the past

He cannot move his legs; Nor his arms; Nor his head,
They were too tormented by the one thing that ruthlessly ran forward,
The one thing that was inevitable:
Time.

The glint in his eyes are not madness, they're not a hope for wealth, not a hope for food, not a hope for a home
It is to go back in time
To enjoy when he was what he yearned to be again: Young