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Growing Old


Ann Nixon

 I grow old, I grow old. As the wrinkles on my face show. Like a map they show the paths in life that I have chosen. My skin hangs loosely on my bones that become weaker day by day. My eyes that were once as sharp as an eagle's deceive me into reading signs wrongly and the views that surround my home become more blurred like paintings of landscapes that have been smudged. My ears no longer hear the knocks on my door from the few visitors who I strain to hear speak.

I grow old all alone. I chose to be alone a long time ago when I no longer embraced the arms that were bracleted, white and bare. Sometimes I regret choosing to be alone when the night draws in crisp and cold and smothers the land in darkness. I yearn to be heard and to listen to more than the wind howling and the trees swaying but, I threw away my chance and now my mind concentrates on a life that could have been or maybe what should have been instead of what it is, lonely.

I grow old, I grow old, I grow old all alone. I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

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