As you grow old, then older,
the waking world seems less real,
the new Summers are colder
and there is less you can feel.
You lose more loved ones each year,
(those most sacred anchor points)
and life drifts far, death draws near,
his claws deep in creaky joints.
Waking life is like a dream
and you dream of things now gone—
the years long past which now seem
truer than any new dawn
till you think this world untrue,
a dream from which none awake,
all things drifting far from you
like waves on a restless lake.
Now watch! The ripples reflect
a mirrored world solely known
as that which we must reject
for the distortions thus shown—
distortions of the essence
twisting memories askew,
images making less sense
and bringing nightmares anew.
Waking world, you’re for the young
while the old see what’s not there:
a foggy looking glass hung
above a stained napping chair.