The thought of growing old was to become wise and sage.
But it seems the greater your age, the more the rage.
A loss of mobility at any stage.
Your lifeblood dripping from the page.
The feeling you being stuck in a cage.
in a world that grows more strange
exchanged in a dream that was once waged.
we have forever changed.
A campaign, unlike morning rain.
A raw pain as all breaks.
with essays of blame, We wonder if we are any longer sane.
Delayed by what we became, we are now not brave.
With no domain to save,
We wait for the outcomes, of the surgeon’s blade.
The sunlight brings our escape, But we will be back in bed by eight.