The Old Man

I have seen his face, somewhere behind my reflection.
I hear his whispers in the dark, driving me from rest.
I have suffered his blows upon the good in me.
I have grappled with him, viciously assaulted him, but he will not be subdued.

I am unable to sever myself from him;
he is welded to me and I am torn from his constant abrasion.

Born with me, he is my burden; I have carried him all of my days.
Panting, gnashing, gnawing, murmuring; he writhes inside of me.
He is a sickness within me, requiring constant nursing.

He is the old man, a mortal coil encumbering my every action.
Shackled together he, my constant companion, slows my pace.

Oh! To press my thumbs into his eyes on a dark, rain-soaked field;
to drive my fingers into his throat; to squeeze the life from him;
to release him from his chains, would be the end of me as well.

So, I will continue to bear him, and his cur-like nature, throughout the remainder of my years.

Maybe he will quiet himself as we walk into the ages.