Poems & Musings,  Writing

Withered Pages

Do the words dry up

With the passing of time and forming of wrinkles

My bones getting weaker

As my joints sing new songs? 

Are they linked to me like the veins in my body 

The pounds gathered from many rich meals

With those I love? 

My brain fires new thoughts, not all of them nice

Days wasted away on worries that will come to pass regardless

But maybe not in the way I fear

I hope the Muse visits me when I’m old;

Eternally young lips brushing my forehead

Prompting me to pick up my pen one more time

I will remember how, I promise her.

I will remember.

– Sara Myriad

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