You're Old

By Austen Fisher

Creeping carefully in a crumbling carcass, you are already dead. 

You are a zombie blundering around the house. 

Creak, clip, clop, creak. 

You are asleep all the time.

You hope each day is goodbye. 

You don’t bother, you’re not worth a dime. 

You haunt your house until you can die.

No one ever visits. 

No one even cares. 

No one ever thinks about you unless they need you. 

And everybody stares. 

The house notices your age.

The bed is angered by the time you spend in it. 

The neighbors make up stories about you being a witch. 

Even you start to believe that you should’ve died a while ago.  

You’re not forgotten, but irrelevant. 

You’re like a match, flickering on a small stick. 

You’re the one generation taking in all the beauty.

You’re the only one to understand the real meaning of life. 

You’re old.

Creeping carefully in a crumbling carcass, you die.