Old Age

Old Age After the coming of age, There sits on the throne of man Either a cretin or sage, Depending on how the sands ran. Likely, if wisdom comes The body goes begging for strength Leaving the fortunate ones Some pride in their frail disgrace. But often the ignorant play A doddering song on their spools, Their reason quite overlaid By filth from a karmic broom. So goes the fast flowing of time Which comes to the ending of man Holding a clock that signs The halting of all that began. There do the opposites merge, Scouring the last of distinction. It's then that desire's urge Is brought to its best completion.