Old Age

We are all
Terrible dreams
As far my eyes
Can tell –

At least
From a backwards
Glance
Where life
Appears so long,

But never
In media res
Upon this proof
Conceding

To minds
Whose fearful
Sleeping
Deludes each sense
When woke.

Valueless
Though we believe
Our gifts make
Appropriate burdens

Like feelings
Expressed intently
Through an image
Etched
On flesh-

Our bodies
Masked with stone
Broken
By God’s great chisel,

Hammering tales
Off faces
Fixed
For forever
At last.

Those cracked
And colorless skins
Hold truths
Unsaid between us

Through statues
Stoically crafted
Made calm
While modeling
Death –

Beautiful art
Untouched
If assessed
Without that knowledge

How time
Apparently dawdles
Inside
These nightmare
Shells.

– J. Pigno

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