Two other lyrics about the approach of death are "In the Dark of Night," posted on 9 August 2018 and linked here, and "There Is Nothing More Louche," posted on 19 October 2021, linked here.
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His fifties come and gone
He noticed little change,
Élan and appetite were good;
Daily the days were long,
And graft was fair exchange,
Done handily because he could.
Then after sixty-three,
So soon, a clutch of pains
Gave aching hint that all decays;
A seep in energy,
Sore hip, raw cuts and sprains,
Were frank that flesh must lose its glaze.
And now at seventy-one
Sleep bushwacks every day,
His prostate stings, heart fakes a beat,
Eyes drip in wind or sun;
His geist withered to clay,
What’s left but thoughts, some shreds of heat?
Once, life’s packed call, arms-wide,
Was goal; now, deathwards, he
Drifts coldly from the rousing young:
A watershed has dried,
Its desert holds the key:
At end he will be seed or dung.
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© February 2021
