The Old

Without pace and sight, the old do struggle so-
I watch them crawl,
I taste their woe.
And how sad their faces are cast-
Most years taken -
Each second, nearly last.

On black Tuesdays they have shaken hands with death,
Watched loved ones fall,
Bereft of any breath.
And so familiar tears,
Scold their weathered cheeks,
Another purchased Christmas gift,
That they sadly keep.

They pray to God to keep them sane -
A place in heaven,
A cottage in their name.
Then wonder deeply how it would feel,
To hold such belief - and believe it real.

But do not worry or lose your faith,
You are the old -
The wisest of our race.
In giving life to others, you are infact Gods.
Aiding evolution,
Painting stars inside starry pods.

You will die,
But forever you will last,
As the remnant of a galaxy-
Beautiful in cast.