368: The Weight of the Fall

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.

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