Back-ache swoops in for a visit.
My old friend.
His intensity more explicit
as he grows older.
As we near our inevitable end.

Why is it?
When first comes his knock
(and ‘I’ decline)
my soul present spirit
is ‘me, an old man’.
Hard as rock.


Thank God.
He churns me
abrades me
scrapes me
to the lands of two kinds of light

where night dawns into day
where dark dreams creature me
stirring swirling vivid mists
softening daylight's sway.


Is it longing I hear him feel?
Time’s running out!
Deeply urgent.
Deathly serious.
Open, be putrefied!
Empty out, be real!

Twists his knives.
Emerging colours
from pain that writhes.
Hues of altering sight
... at long last ...
I begin to see The Others
in the half-light.

How soothing the relief!
When finally
he goes gently into that good night.
But time will be brief
and he will be back
before day turns to face night,
when we both leave together
through the crack,
to forever.

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