Old

A retirement home,
so they say.
A prison of fading memories.
Bars of wrinkles hold me down.
The smell of serum burns my nostrils.
The machine hooked to my heart,
beeps slowly,
very slowly.

I'm a child once more,
and it doesn't make me blissful.

The rusty wheelchair screeches,
my wobbly hand barely moves it.

Facing west,
I sit and linger,
for Him to come.

Maybe, tomorrow.
Never, yesterday.

See you,
time for my medicine.