Mirage

I saw an old woman,

Senile, Saggy skinned, sombre.

Talking to herself,

Oblivious to the passerby.

Yelling out, pointing at men,

She made an effort;

There were no words, No voice,

Only a cryptic twist of the facial muscles.

Just an antic, to say ‘he stinks’.

For a moment, I thought,

She was insane.

Caught up in the vicious web,

Of age, distant from herself.

 

Then she saw a baby,

And she smiled, Ah! The smile…

No, not insane.

Just old, very old.

Contoured face, feeble frame.

Dependent, distorted, deluded.

 

Realisation dawned on me,

Like an overcast cloud.

And I drenched in the revelation,

Like a black rose, sodden in morning dew,

Youth, is just a mirage.

A transient interim,

To our final abode.

 

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