Burning Out Accordingly

 Some days I see it; some days it's just me looking back
but I definitely feel it, in every slowing movement:
bones grind and creek to life and death,
cartilage eroded and muscles dutifully pulped.

There are other moments, when I can jog
or practice one of the other habitual human traditions
but often I'm just tired and my arms seem too short.
They're not reaching too far because I'm tired,
my body affectedly follows.

Ready for death? Never, always waiting for life's quest
to manifest in the form of something metaphysical.
I could take God at the right moment, for a moment
with the right potency of insanity.
I am aging and I'll never side-step this one
but what am I aging for?

Is all the pain and tolerance a measurement
or criteria for a spiritual testament?

I knew an old man once; I still hear stories
about his polarisation of life and deterioration.
He chose drugs over life and wilt over bloom
now he's digging his nails into what's left;
scared, regretful but the nails will peel and snap
as he's dragged unwillingly through whatever cracks open.

I suppose life can go too quick, leaving no time
to weigh it all with askant eyes because it's too late.
It's all excreting and dripping away
but unlike my father I'm still stretching my hand out
however short my arms are, they're not reaching inwards.