Colin F. Jones

OLD

Stale thought within the larder of thy brain,
Does not a joyous enfold entertain,
Nor as it crumples to thy truant touch,
Does it in this new future matter much.
Age destroys that which the larder keeps,
Lest the dimming eye about its vision weeps,
The cobwebs worthless as a woven strand,
To secure the closure of a cumic hand,
Unfolded from a stronger tauter fist,
That could once all restraint resist.
No, none will live beyond their dying day,
And long before they’ll cast their mind away,
For none so aged will a current thought retain,
When all their history can be lived again.