Beneath the Grass
What would it feel like, any fun, to live to be one hundred?
My imagination says it would be less fun and more dread.
With luck, still shuffling about, able to pee upon my shoes.
not rolled around as deadwood, by someone I don’t choose.
Perhaps I will be non-compos mentis and it will not matter,
with bones so thin that if I sneeze violently, I might shatter.
Or will I be stuck in bed, unmoving, still sharp as a stiletto.
Much less hope of change, than if I were born into a ghetto.
Already I complain of aches, pains, yet I am rather young,
two decades more than half way, I should hold my tongue.
I’m not finished, yet, though you might hear me moaning.
Someday, soon, from a distant country, I will be phoning.
Either end of our lives, we have so very little true control.
Someone decides what we eat, when we will take a stroll.
So I intend to live this moment, now, do as much as I can,
Till my body rests ‘neath the grass, at least that’s my plan.
Peace is Purpose, Nonviolence is Strength, Diversity is Unity, Empathy is Empowerment
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