Forty-One

This age wears well
Like the finest of wines
In a dry season
Subtle, yet sweet
Rich and delicate
Despite its history
And my bones, they ache
They take time to warm
To adjust to themselves
After all this time
These lines on my face
Testament to a dreaming
That fades in eventuality
A new beginning for me
But the clock doesn’t lie
Its hands steadily advancing
The grinding of its gears
Giving me pause
Letting me in on a secret
That it takes time to get
All this dust and consequence
Shading me in trace elements
Leaving this constant soul
With more questions than a few
Even after all this time
Their answers transparent
As summer turns to fall
While the leaves tremble and fall
Lost to a casual eye
That sees itself looking
Without knowing what it sees

This age wears well
Like an artificial mirth
Mixed up in a stage show
Where I am the lead actor
Playing a myriad of roles
Lost in this appreciation
For the wisdom of years
Without feeling ancient
For the cast of characters
Who have darkened my door
Searching for kindred souls
In the middle of this life
For meaning from this chaos
That shakes me like a rag
And leaves me satisfied
With the aching of my bones
The decades that keep fading
These faces that disappear
Replaced by ones that matter
An opportunity to exhale
When I stop holding my breath
When the dreams turn to dust
To these ashes in my mouth
Set ablaze by experience
Renewed in the taming of time
In the grinding of these gears
So I’ll know I’m still alive
After a passing youth
That was only the beginning.

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