Everyone wants to grow old, but no one wants to be old.

All long to see the years in gentle rise,
Yet none would dwell where age has made its home;
The mirror bends the truth of weary eyes,
And hearts protest a fate they call their own.

The body, once a vessel tuned to speed,
Now trembles under weight of time’s command;
Each step recalls a fire that once would lead,
Now falters like a tide upon the sand.

Companions fade, while silence fills the room,
The feast grows cold, the corners film with dust;
What once was promise wears the mask of gloom,
And hope lies buried deep in broken trust.

Yet still, though age may bind me to its art,
The will to live beats stubborn in my heart.