Are you born old,

Or do you become old?

Do bones become brittle?

Inching closer to glass as days give birth to years?

Are you satisfied with being old?

With watching your closest companions deteriorate

Into scaly versions of former silhouettes?

With feeling every single step, every single reach, every single turn

Your body makes?

Does an icy walkway taunt your skittish steps?

Begging you to tumble down the slippery slope?

 

Or

 

Does old age carry a knapsack of privilege?

Do you work your entire life,

Just to be able to sit upon a leather throne,

Choosing between Food Network and Modern Marvels,

Making multiple sets of eyes sparkle with magnificent gifts?

Tinker toys and Barbie Dolls.

Do you look back on one hell of a ride,

On one hell of a life?

 

Or

 

Do you wait to die alone?