Growing Old

Behind this strong exterior lies a lonely little child.
I work harder and harder everyday it seems, in my job, in life in general.
And ultimately for what reward, what outcome?
I picture myself growing older.
I see myself with wrinkles, greying hair.
I can feel the aching in my bones already.
I hear the creaking of time as I walk.
I look in the mirror and I can see the future me so clearly.
But she’s looking back at me, sad and disappointed.
She’s desperately trying to tell me how to fill the holes in my heart,
the holes that really matter.
She speaks to me and her mouth moves, but no words can be heard.
I do not have the wisdom yet, the years yet, for the knowledge to be real.
But I know I can’t turn back time.  I know I can’t relive things later.
I desperately want the secrets, the answers, the magical cure.
For next to dying alone, my biggest fear is living alone
or that perhaps I die having hardly lived.

 

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