The Art of Wrinkling

These are my eyes,
once keen and sharp
as the sunrise.
Stewing, they sit now,
in the holes of my head.
These are my ears,
once intent on bending,
sifting your phrases as
I sat upon your knee,
dear Earth.
Do you still work on your opus?
These are my fingers,
once justified in their limberness,
embarking upon a journeyman’s voyage
into the wilderness.
This path is crowded.
Can you feel it?
This is my mouth,
once filled with teeth for biting,
once filled with incandescent words,
once savoring the spice of
life.
This is my mind,
once acutely aware of
our hidden catacombs
beneath each of our
surfaces
and puzzled by the ignominious
finger twiddling and farce.
Now, acutely aware that
my body
seeks its respite,
eyes to no longer see
ears to no longer hear
mouth to no longer speak
so that
posterity may be kept
for
posterity’s sake.
-JR Simmang
What happens to us as we age? I see there are two possible roads: either we get wiser, or we pretend to get wiser.

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