Terry D. Sutherland

AGING OF THE SOUL

Gray with age and gaunt with time
Ravaged thin with hatred’s wasting;
A poison, slow to act
When one succumbs, very young to
Warring cries,
Incorporeal essence,
Basted in the squalor of the lie
Turning forever on the spit
Hoping for the final probe of the fork
Searching always, hunting always for
The tenderness, that never was,
Nor will ever be