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The End Game
By John A. McAllister, Torrington
They asked me how it feels to be an octogenarian and I am at a loss for words. So for you who are curious, I wrote the following poem some time ago, but did not offer it for use until now.
It comes quietly
so unexpected
and mighty.
It shatters complacency
and avoids reality.
Mere existence ceases,
comfort goes,
The being slowly destructs
as ordained
by nature.
It is attack—attack
on body and mind,
Aches and pains or
dementia and deterioration
until the end.
The assailant—old age,
unavoidable,
destructive.
Yet at the end a gift
to the superannuated.
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