THE COMING OF AGE

Should we not stop for death,

he’ll slowly come with stealth not show.

 

Joints worn down get narrow;

 

made plain by their shadow image.

Rather know your inner rage,

for until turned, no page is read.

This story hangs by threads,

divining names we’ve said, but slurred.

And being seen not heard,

as line by line our words forgot,

is time to crypt from cot     

spent mostly doing what we’re told?                   

Or not, if making bold.

Breathe out, breathe in and hold each breath.

 v. 2018