Reflections on the reading of a will
Old people are ghosts trying out their shrouds
parachuting lemmings taking refuge in the clouds,
a ground rush of senility invades their tired brains
degrading their ability with each day that still remains.
They stand on cliffs to paint the sea
and focus on tranquility.
Their dodgy valves leak pints of tea,
they wonder how they came to be.
In drawers they leave named envelopes
with scented kisses and dying hopes,
written by a trembling hand
that shaped the lives they made and planned.
Their epitaphs are incomplete
abridged goodbyes to keep it neat,
their contracts signed and sealed away
in words we’ll never hear them say.