Old

Worn and battered; sorry and sad,
Now old, it’s hard to be glad
The world at your fingertips, yet nothing to hold
Constantly standing, with secrets untold
The desire to run, to be free, to move
The thing this world’s denying you
It doesn’t improve your mood
It is agony to watch as they run about
While they play and jump and shout
Yet you are standing here as still and silent as a dead trout
When spring comes around your flowers still bloom
But they’re not as bright, are dull and full of gloom
As the long years pass a tickling sensation begins
First at the roots then further within
The final day comes and you tilt and fall
Becoming another log on the forest floor

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