image borrowed from bing
No Cure
Senescence came upon him early,
brutally,
unkind.
He had watched his parents gracefully
embrace the passing of time,
seeming to notice age in the way that
subtile potpourri will tickle the nose.
He would have no such adventure,
savaged by disease with no cure
that marked his body like blazon rust
marring exposed iron.
Denied a cure, dreams dismissed,
he would never visit Caracol, or
New Zealand to eat kiwi from the vine,
or dance with his daughters
on their
wedding day.
Mark Windham
Posted over on his site Awakened Words
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