[Lavender Pathways]
Old age is a curious thing. Some describe it as a metaphorical setting of the sun. Often taking longer than one expects, the grey worn pastel shades of crimson light can become indistinguishable from the night itself.
iStock photo ID:150369882_Credit delihayat
Time is seen to be the illusion it is. One uncertain reality within another and so on. And yet the cycle of movement continues as we onlookers catch our breath and lose our footing at its speed. And suddenly, the old voices discussing your future have become young voices deciding your path.
For you, life once again is a spectators sport. The line of traffic mimicking the years stretches so far back into your past that the road itself can no longer say: 'I began here'… it just has a vague idea that amidst the fog of some dawn blistered memory, there was something like a beginning - inappropriate, though that word now feels.
Strangely, fear of death appears greater in obedient age than in cavalier youth. Indecipherable raindrops echo down the long hall, from the nursery to the nursing home. But the storm soon passes, leaving a smell of damp lavender lingering like fog amongst tombstones.
Yet the fog too, surrenders to the morning dew.
A soft scythe waltz
mimics Gods breath -
and there by degrees,
a handful of people
left walking between worlds.
Slowly, they evaporate,
like the idea of heaven
and the knowledge of suffering.
© Shoreditchpoet
