Age creeps up upon us all like a small gray cat,
Stealthy in approach, with softly padded footfalls,
Sensually, movements vague, yet with determined
Vengefulness, sinuously stalking each man and woman,
Mewling, purring, mercilessly pursuing, eventually
Climbing uninvited and demanding upon each lap.
That dark centurion of time, keeper of infinity,
Guardian of predestined oblivion and destruction
Visits in the darkest hours of the utter catlike night,
Marking all without concern for beauty or strength.
Unknowable, implacable finity gathering its black shroud
Of ultimate, inescapable, darkest, wearying exhaustion.
Once young, once strong, once pulsating with energy
The high are brought low, the lowly elevated to heights
Known only to some higher purpose that transcends
Our understanding; in the final accounting, nothingness.
The lonely anguish of age mercifully dulled by fading reason,
Senilia of ineluctable dissolution and ultimate decay.
That little gray cat is on my lap as I speak, purring
Its obscene pleasures as it kneads my leg, small, fatal,
Herald of impending doom, whisking its tail to give the lie
To its irresistible deceits, deceptions of bleakest promise.
Small gray icon of doom, it yawns as if nothing matters.
Poised upon the brink of the centurion’s fateful whim.