questions

sorrow is the timeline, the pencil streak
that draws the perimeters I inhabit.
Most deeply, one is always alone
lost in a maze of meanness and small minds.

The burden is not to be shared.
Only a dark useless wisdom
to be gained from all this.

Configuration by scars.
All decisions look bad in hindsight,
and the nights grow riper with regrets,
and the shell of loneliness
we acquire with years.

every single day, bit by bit,
inexorable,
like Chinese water torture,
the awareness of old age and its bitter jagged edges
grows.

we will be left behind.
Together in a hole. Yet so alone.
Silent grief shattering us quietly.

the words "younger", "stronger",
once my natural habit, trigger now
a quiet barrage of a sad despair.

they will call this maturity.
I wish I could know
if you have the same thoughts, my love.

And you, my daughter?
Will you feel life this way?