Chris Matthews.

Frail. (a sonnet)

 

She sat there. Frozen. To her small low chair.

She, cuddled by a blanket, heating on.

Nursing home retirement, no one to care.

Inglorious end, to a life so long!

 

Look in the mirror, don't know who is there.

Such furrowed face, looks down to bearded chin.

Shaking, blotchy hands, comb thinning hair.

Now confuse the frail, from the soul within.

 

It's eighty years now, since she was born.

How fleeting time is now, that once you're past,

Fading eyes. That long breath. The final yawn.

How unfair it is for us not to last.

 

Close not our eyes, lest we find we be dead,

And this mortal coil, merely in our head.

 

©Chris Matthews.