Destination Poem by Jan Sand

There is cold
In the country of the old.
Heat of life,
Heat of love,
Heat of curiosity
Has drained away.
From its terrain,
Stony as a terminal moraine,
Sprouts pain,
Sprouts anxiety,
Sprouts isolation.
Desolation fills the atmosphere.
It blurs perception,
It blurs tactility,
It blurs memory.
Lonely, confused and feeble,
Old creatures creep in insecurity,
Stumbling on the roots and vines
Of bodily infirmity,
Await with temerity,
Await with resignation
The final mating
With the monolithic dominator
Whose acid flames
Burn away the self,
Dissolve and dissipate the substance,
Reduce to bland simplicity
The intricate design
Of individuality.