It has struck hard,
that hour I long ignored,
until now, this week,
when my body clock
turned back
my lower strength put to,
by discomfort’s drag,
through my frame,
here, inside, unseen,
where bones meet flesh:
With no defence,
no pill
no armour,
no burgonet.
No more ‘normal’,
no more being immortal.
Only with a long sleep,
my free-to-rest whore,
under her peace
I temporarily transform.
I can still press-up,
but the inner weight is
greater
than that of my youngest,
sat today on my back,
and like his presence,
riding for a loud laugh,
my invisible weight
laughs last.