Middle age is being buried alive, the clock sun ticking out of sight. Roots are handcuffs resisting toil, feet fondled by the loamy soil. Middle age lacks the freedom of untethered youth, the absence of aged clouds, an abundance of truth. Drowning in dirt, afraid to resurface or to dig deeper. Not knowing which is worse. Middle age, the true curse, Bloom where you're planted from birth to hearse.
© 2023 | K. Hartless
Artwork: Adam Oehlers





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