Lights of Life

I know I’m growing old, my youth detached
and shed from me some time ago, and so
I mumble to myself and light a match.
I find myself dwelling in little, scratch
my scalp and take off where the wind may blow.
I sense I’m growing old. I felt detached
today, I saw what dreams of mine could catch
the ends of threads from time’s forgotten glow,
the mumbles of life’s twilight, which parts match.
Denial drifts along like trash cast
beside the highways of my mind—but lo!
I am aware I’m growing old. Detached
from this and that, I am, from time elapsed.
And my prayers, unto heavenly ears, go.
My mumbles travel out. I light a match.
I heard it spoke that, somewhere, all things last,
but my doubts linger just like swirling smoke.
I know I’m growing old. My youth detached,
I mumble to myself, and light a match.