A Hangman Still Finds Work

We're not as young
         as we are bold, anymore.
I can't stand the thought of
            growing old anymore;
Of half-dreamed dreams & soft regrets
     & memories clear as silhouettes,
Of bent fingers stained by cigarettes,
     tracing time's ancient minuets.

Impossible to forget:
we all will be forgotten.
Impossible to ignore:
we trade our fitted flesh for the bloated rotten.

I believe it is beautiful
 & I find it strange:
      we all know the white-knuckled grip of change-
                        the fist of metamorphosis-
            familiar as a mother's whispered kiss
                     to soothe her baby's mounting fever.

                          It is the hangman's fetid hand,
                                     caressing the lever.