Barley Writes: Think of what will.

I think of the days that I would grow senile,

Excessively orthodox,

Archaic and ancient,

Stained with shallow orfices around my face,

Waiting for a glimpse of an angel’s encompassing embrace,

My smile with more geography than most maps,

My strut with more stops that the Crimson red light could give before it’s emancipation,

My clothes, dim and faded with unruly air meandering through it,

My eyes with faded vision, unable to see the world and how much it has burned,

My feet with minor weakness, weeping for a rest at some chair,

My brain, bursting with experience and dreams, 

And my hands, retired from the daily orders from my brain.

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