Age Is A Usurper

The days roll into months
months into years
age makes you a dunce
you walk about in fears.

The older you turn
the more cautious you become
drifting away from the fun
mostly  lonesome.

The world is moving  fast
you lag behind.
more or less a relic of past
shallow in a kind.

Wrinkles are too many
the skin sags
you look funny
almost like a loose bag.

You walk with a stick
your eyesight is poor
you are on the brink
death waits at the door.

You have to go on
till your last day
be there no other way.