An old man sat in his shriveled body and shouted, "I am young! What happened to my youth!"

I stare into a jaded mirror and demand to see the better days.

I am Monet and his gray hairs, asking why can't I see the yellow of late summer.

Virile had been me. Agile had been me. A perfect shape had been me. I am now but warts and fat.

I say to myself, "Hey, you! Stop walking toward tomorrow. Turn back for yesterday! Only death and anger lie ahead! Lament claws for your ankles!"

Time, O, you liar. You are the tide dragging sand from under my toes.

An old man and his knobby hands cried, "O, God, why is the world so old?"