All my unused muscles
in jiggling heaps.
All my faulty feelings
disinfected in the sink.
Worn-out wisdom
and anger like a leak.
Overused voice
that barely squeaks.
Freakishly long fingernails
that can’t scratch
away the date.
Spiky split ends
and silver friends
like foreign contagions.
My memory’s busy
making bad decisions.
I’m just a bag
of contaminated parts
quietly catching dust,
but that’s what happens
when a body rusts.
© khartless 2021, All Rights Reserved
“For if a priest be foul, on whom we trust,
No wonder is a common man should rust” – from the Prologue of The Canterbury Tales
Yard Sale of Thoughts 
🤣🤣 Self image at its critical best!
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😗 Exactly. The breakdown is understandable. Here’s to a weekend of recuperation, friend.
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Hear, hear!
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This reminds me of the old Rolling Stones song – what a drag it is getting old!
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Oiks. Reverberating with me!
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This time of year always makes me reflect on decay, but spring brings rebirth. 💜
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Decay is just the mulch for the rebirth – the food, the nutritious sludge.
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This geezer dug this work. Thanks.
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Thanks, Ron. You’re one groovy geezer. 😃
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some spiky, odiferous images here: great pic to work from 🙂
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Thanks, John. I love the Canterbury tales, you? Such a rich set of stories to draw inspiration from.
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