Welcome Mr. Death

Now the leaves, relentless, fast decay,
And memory grows dimmer day by day.
Old age seeps into joints and sinews furtively.
Shedding white hair grows tousled unbecomingly.

All your dreams long since past…
Purpose seems a bloated outcast.
Hope and aspirations retarded;
Fleeting time, spent, never recovered.

The young fear Mr. Death —
Not to be cheated of their experience,
But the old have had their time,
So, for them, he may be kind.

All Poetry — Henry Barnard

My Story

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