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.

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