The stairs are me, the floor is me, the chair itself resembles me
The hinges are undoubtedly me.
I’m rusty, old,
creaking along, falling apart, painfully slow.
Each step echoes loud, every day asks for effort.
The sun it looks down, the moon and stars too,
And planets I’ve gazed on for hours to few.
My garden is weed, shrubs create curtains;
The grass grows and grows,
As I become older.
It’s a lonely existence - this end of life venture.
Maybe I’ll die,
Leaving no one the wiser.