So tired.
Both physically and mentally.
I feel like I’m young.
Not meant to see
the reality
of being aged and sore.
But it creeps upon me each day,
this cloak of Father Time .
It falls on me and forces me to carry the weight of some heavy canvas.
Trapped under a shroud,
lost and feeling around,
the only sure thing is the ground
that is beneath my feet.
Effort just to stand in this veiled world.
Sometimes I just want to lay down
and let the cloak comfort me.
Blissfully sleep away time.
Then there are those times
I just want to cut away and shear
the veil of fear
and uncertainty that smothers me.
I stab at the shroud
like a psychopath with a knife.
©
©
A Blooming Scribe 