Lying Down

Amazing how the prophesy of time and age fulfills itself.
Hard to stand and harder to get around sometimes.
Aches rush at me, and pain keeps pushing harder to put me down.
Time’s steady foot-soldier march, the tread of boots wearing out my space,
treading on, the silent steps ticking off pieces of my crumbling years.
Tedious the way my hours, no matter if they’re filled with joy or sorrow,
all topple, stamped dominoes of days gone by, where no emotion, no event could matter,
cause a shift of gear to slower, say, if the occasion were one to savor rather than endure.
That final call to order gaveled down before the start of my allotted slot,
the pounding sound I couldn’t hear at that second of spark in my parents’ eyes,
when they met and made their measured way toward me.
That sound I would hear softly echo each second if I stopped and strained to listen.
That deafening first alert, the one that will be countered – when, I couldn’t know,
that hammering bookend to the life I pace exactly, no matter if I stand or run.