This Old Life

It doesn't make sense,

this old life.

Old. Olding. Older.

All the same.

In the same body, it’s all the same.

Eventually.

There’s nothing new under the sun.

A life grows. It dies.

Happiness comes. It fades.

The aching heart hurts. It heals.

The pressure cooker squeals. It calms.

Eventually.

This cycle of life, it turns, it churns.

It rolls along.

The cicadas still sing.

Are they laughing at me?

The probably are not even aware of me.

My thoughts. My presence.

I’m listening to them.

What do I mean to a cicada?

It doesn’t make sense,

this old life.

11/06