Eminence Grise

This thing that grows old –
you wonder what it wants.
Unless it’s just another stark
condition of the Soul –
involuntary progeny of all
the mostly unintended wreckage
to which you’ve subjected
your worn life, stricken
by intransigent biology:
which over time inevitably aches,
and breaks, and makes itself:

or else is it the grand Dickensian
old man who, wrapped up
in a purple blanket, just
appeared, right here, to offer
his alternative to “inner child”?
You wonder if he’d held the reins
all through the woolly

and the wild of you.

And if he now has come
to tell you he is you. Sly

little tease – eminence grise.

.