Middle age is being buried alive, the clock sun ticking out of sight. Roots are handcuffs resisting toil, feet fondled by the loamy soil. Middle age lacks the freedom of untethered youth, the absence of aged clouds, an abundance of truth. Drowning in dirt, afraid to resurface or to dig deeper. Not knowing which is worse. Middle age, the true curse, Bloom where you're planted from birth to hearse.
© 2023 | K. Hartless
Yard Sale of Thoughts 
Ethereal. 😮
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I thought so as well. Wrote the shell of this poem and then heard Ailbhe’s new song. It seemed the perfect fit for an ending.
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I dig it
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😉 Yes.
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Heartless by Heart. I will always think of your name and that song. Lol
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Yes, but you know of course that my name is “Hartless” which is in fact, deer less. Quite bad shots with bow and arrows my ancestors, I imagine. ;0
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You are a great writer and I can’t help hearing that song every time you comment or post something. Lol.
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Well done.
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Thank you, Judy. I appreciate your comment.
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I realized I was posting on my music site. That was me, Judy. Thanks again for the positive feedback.
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crisis coming down
all around
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Does it hurt as much if you’re underground?
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Woah. So many good lines here, my favorites being “the absence of aged clouds,
an abundance of truth” and “Bloom where you’re planted
from birth to hearse.” Really good writing.
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Thank you. I saw this painting and it came to me immediately, this. middle age, heavy buried already feeling. I am so glad you enjoyed these lines of verse.
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