On Aging...

 
I was a player now a spectator
I question why, no one answers
I think the same but perform poorly
I remember but then forget
I see but no longer understand
I reach out but am ignored
I crave affection but receive only words
I want to touch but people recoil at wrinkled hands
I desire mainstream but an warehoused
The warehouse has others bewildered
and questioning why
When did I stop being me to everyone?
When did I become just a potted plant
to be watered and fed from time to time?
Why am I shelved waiting for the the end.
Why are they more concerned with what
I leave while in still here.
My worth is reduced to words on a page
and a illegible shaky signature.
Perhaps in the next life I will once again
be me.