On the Flip Side of the Mirror

A surge of sense.s Silences seconds— Close your eyes And the air thickens With a cocktail of scents That trigger every last nerve ending Like an old symphony Your body almost remembers. Life, at the end of a racetrack Where first place feels like a punishment— Awareness loses To convenience That stretches itself one morning And finds every damn piece of furniture Moved. Protests? Pointless. Fingers now bend in rebellious directions. Thyroid keeps demanding pills Three times a day, Stomach files complaints Unless the menu is monk-approved. Cuss words— Once sharp like knives— Now sound like cheap echoes. Rules? They fight back With scribbled receipts, Faded travel plans, And three damn cars Nobody makes or fixes anymore. Hey— Remind the room These creaky knees still pack enough torque To knock some sense in. Let them Play smart. I’ll return their sweet suggestions With whichever finger Gets the best lift. Forward is forward— No matter the pace. Make Them Wait. Let them learn What this relentless chase For programmed praise Does to bone, breath, and being. Give them a test at the end—three hours, no cheat sheet. Laugh hard— Behind the book You now can’t read Without your bifocals. Once, I might have whispered— “Hold fire. Wait it out.” But now? The world spills Over with nonsense. The hourglass is bare. No witnesses needed. Only a season of reckoning

That ends When it ends.