adventures in dysthymia

Sunday, January 24, 2016

Count, a poem

Count

I'm at the age where I forget my age
and have to count from my birth date
if I can remember what year this is.
No one dwells here to remind me,

no differences appear from one day to
another. Only the mirror tells me
I have changed. It whispers, Look away,
old man. Go find old photos, gray

and faded, gray and faded as you. They once
told a truth of sorts, but posed
on yesterday's stage, a story I could not
believe, even as I told it.

I'm at the age where there is much still to be
done but none of it really matters.
All I can do is shrug, pretending not
to notice. Maybe it never did.

Tomorrow is a little closer each day,
and all these photos are undated,
their age forgotten. I'll not count the years.
None will look at them again.

Stephen Brooke ©2016

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