I see wrinkled hands,

brown spots on the skin,

eyes that can see

their death in the future.

-

I see walkers and canes.

Stories told by a rasping

dry tongues. Stories of days

when they were young.

-

I see all this and say

"Don't let me become

one of them. Let me stay young

and fresh…forever."

-

But as the calendars change I know

-

my wish will not be granted.


Can you imagine being old? I mean, really, really old? Scary, huh? This poem is for anyone who doesn't want to grow up. Like me!

-Amber