Getting On

Fortune favours the old.

The senile, insensitive to the unluckiness of luck.

They are like books, or book ends really

They get lost in the middle.

I doubt anyone here remembers,

Who last stoked their internal embers,

But the old who wear sandpaper inside and out

(their skin, akin to a weary barrier)

Are near happier, unable to really sin.

I hope,

You know what this means.

They wear veins and capillaries

Like bejewelled ancillaries,

Waiting for something wonderful.

Either renewal or the end.

Send for the angels now,

Just make sure they beam with smiles

And have miles, of sympathy.

What’s not dislodged by powdery pills

Or infrequent, alcoholic, thrills

Is hate. Against life.

The thing your in, you hate to love.

There is only left for them, trace.

I bet they don’t know, really,

What it is, that they chase.