Fleeting Days Poem by Christopher Withers

each passing day bears little weight,
but little weight accretes,
a lifetimes worth weighs heavily
on my (now) frail form.
childhood memories: now ghosts,
haunt my dimmest vaults,
phantasma unreality,
and a thousand tales or more.
carrying so many years
becomes too great a task,
each day that passes (fleetingly)
dims my vision more.
my future holds an unknown place
which dimming vision bodes,
will be my final resting place
lost amidst the dark and cold.