Slowly Losing Life, Alone
(Draft four)
Paul Stephenson
Those people approaching the final page
Of the book of their lives, called To Death.
Do they know it, do they rage
As they draw their penultimate breath?
I saw it all around me, I did not care;
What lay ahead, I could not see,
The pale, wrinkled skin and fading hair,
That one day this would be me.
I’m on that path... Where’s the proof?
This question was unbidden.
I ignored the Reaper in my youth,
But now is revealed what was hidden.
All I imagined in my younger days:
Perhaps fame, but certainly wealth,
Was wrong, I now see, in so many ways,
But these things were unknown in their stealth.
I’ve wandered through life, alone but content;
In my mind, I had all that I needed.
I did not see what companionship meant
And advice was never heeded.
Now as I sit alone in my den
Using words to create my art,
The knotted hand that grips my pen
Aches like my own broken heart.
Slowly, they crept to the sides of my eyes,
Those wrinkles that now are so deep.
All my hopes back then, self-delusional lies,
Which are now even gone from my sleep.
All I could have done, but I did not see;
Until now, I did not know the cost
Of every missed opportunity,
Now yearned for, but mournfully lost.
Now close to conclusion, consumed by my sadness,
Waiting for the whole thing to end;
Alone with my writing: a literary madness...
Fading thoughts are now my only friend.