The Anguished

The scream of age unbidden comes,
Too often in the night,
When guts are ripped and muscles torn,
And memory is shorn from sight.
We’ll never be all right.

The anguish of the ages comes,
To pull us into fright,
When expurgation claims our soul,
Extinguishing our whole, our might.
We’ll never be all right.

The pain of aging overcomes,
To make our eyes clench tight,
Though not from something seen without,
And not from inner doubt nor light.
We’ll never be all right.

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