Mr. Middle Age

Mr. Middle Age

Mr. Middle Age has a few stray greys, 

his tone, warm like cinnamon, his bosom is filled with a kind of wisdom.

Many have seen a man riding swift on his horse, on his peculiar destruction.

but few perceive. 

Only a few shut their mouths and refuse to receive the raw delight of the cynic’s syrup. 

They are the ones who see,

they are the ones who will live,

but the rest just give their mouths and necks to be stroked and fed. 

Preparing the ‘sick bed’,

he quickly diagnoses you with youthful naivete, 

and a quaint book of old mishaps and life lessons appears.

He’s the bearded shaman, the mystic seer,

he ladles his sweet viscous remedy and melts all your crisp hope to reality.

Every dampening is his medicine,

all youthful vigour is assuaged. 

What is it you want, Mr. Middle Age? 

Your aura is unsettling, your smile is wry, 

you look me endearingly in the eye and prophesy. 

A language pours from your lips like warm wax into waiting ears, 

it’s runny balm for the ache of your years, 

it’s healing by prevention, 

don’t hope, don’t hear of anything beyond your scope of reality.

Thank you, sir for your counsel,

but your cynicism is not for me.