"What Sounds Like Paradise"
By Ynden Lizardo
I look in the mirror and am disgusted
by the debilitated woman who stares at me
with lifeless eyes.
I loathe the person Age has turned me into.
When I was younger,
I prayed that when I would die
my mind and body
would be preserved in a state before they matured,
and my memory would be preserved in pictures
from when I was younger.
I cannot recognize within my features
the girlish youth who was once spoiled by her daddy,
who was proposed to by her lover.
Nor can I recognize the strong woman
who brought up her son,
who gave him a proper funeral when he died
in the war.
Sometimes,
I am unable to recall recent events;
instead I am plagued
by the feeling that I am growing
more and more senile
with each passing day.
Like a broken cage,
I have no control on what escapes my aging mind.
When I’m awake,
I spend my time aching in bed.
When I can’t sleep,
it is only because the pain is unbearable.
I am alarmed by the rate
at which my body is deteriorating.
Sleep is relief.
Death will be relieving.
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