Clocking how speedily life unravels
Is no easy feat. When you’re 40, it
Seems to be getting quicker by the day,
And 50, I suppose, would send
Me packing to the graveyard much faster.
Still there is nothing, worth carrying with you,
As you learn to realize that baggage is disposable.
And the only survivor to your quest,
Will be, what is more obscure than spirit,
Less cumbersome than form,
More unseasonal than your lips
And always nagging in its search
For the type that keeps you at hello longer
Than any other stint known to man.
And this nagging intruder,
Is what counts at the very end, how
Polluted it is not, and what, it preserved
Inside the infinity vault, for safe keeping,
And this strain of invisibility
Is the holy grail of human anatomy, to find the place,
Where a space still remains unfound.