Poem: The Poet is a Whiny Old Man

I have got an old man’s neck
With lines, but no wisdom hidden within
And a prevalence of double chin.
I have got an old man’s neck

My hands, the skin is paper thin.
I can trace the flow of veins
like rivers coursing through the plains
My hands have skin which is paper thin.

My legs surrender to aches and pains
Like a house that settles to its own dust
or machinery giving in to rust
My legs surrender to aches and pains

And as the years do as they must
My brain loses playing-cards from its deck
Embedded in sand like a shipwreck.
Yes, the years plod on, as they must.

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