Maturity much too quickly descends into brutality,
As time, that eternal contender,
Finally lays claim to its natural advantage.
All pretense, at last, being dropped,
I come too late to appreciate the mismatch.
To understand that the ceaseless ravages,
Won’t – with any certainty – be reversed.
Still, yet one more step in front of another,
Even if each one proceeding is slower,
More deliberate, than the one before.
And, as the physical seeps away,
Ever more steadily,
And the mind follows in lockstep,
I begrudgingly test whether my voice
Has yet been silenced,
And my hands have yet been stilled.
With hand stiffly clutching at hand,
And fingers slowly inter-laced,
I plea. I shout. I shriek.
Seeking to reach your inclined ear,
And to take comfort in your patient touch.
Yet in the silence of my room,
I am left, for a time, to wonder:
Can you still hear me amid the chaos?
As faith and doubt battle on, right beside me.
Image Credit: Pixabay
Return to The Catholic Conspiracy