A thief stole my guts, grit and fire.
Robbed me of the clenched fists
And vigor that fought through every
Day of my tough and volatile youth.
Remaining, only the liver-spotted, crepey
Appendages of an enervated old man
Filled with frail apprehension, where
Caution is foremost in thought when walking
Gingerly on a snow-covered sidewalk, for
Fear of slipping and falling and breaking a hip.
Gone are those carefree buoyant years that
Were thick with whimsical, full throated laughter.
Where thin, disjointed thought grated against life,
Leaving the hardened scabs of carefree naiveté.
Now, only scars, cowardice and smoldering
Charred residue of a life fully lived remain.
Along with the canned laughter echoes of those
Whom I shared in those fatuous, asinine days.
Those of whom now only laugh beneath a tombstone.
Cough, cough. My time here is ending soon enough.
Your muffled laughter, my friends, has gotten louder.
But for now, I’ll try not to slip and fall. Afterall,
It’s not the destination, it’s the journey. Falling
And landing on a hard surface at my age is not my
preferred destination. Just as I’m certain being buried
under rich, manure composted soil wasn’t your preferred
destination. Or anyone’s. But deaths destination is
a journey we’re all heading toward. Whether we like
it or not. And death, life’s thief, always laughs last.
Life’s Thief
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